


Play You Like Cards In My Hand

by Inept_Fangirl



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Relationships, Happy Ending, M/M, Mafia AU, Mentions of Pedophilia, Mild Gore, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Suicidal Thoughts, Slow Burn, Violence, dark themes, everyone is petty, explicit content, tragic pasts? i think yes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2019-09-29 11:12:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 80,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inept_Fangirl/pseuds/Inept_Fangirl
Summary: Choi Seungcheol is the heir to a political empire, an organized crime organization known as the 'Blackjacks', well recognized, well feared. Despite the repercussions of being a mafia boss's son, Seungcheol finds that his life isn't one filled with misery, nor are the people he surrounds himself with evil--the world wasn't simply as easy as good and bad.The Spades are an underground group whose ultimate goal is to take away the Blackjack's power, and in the wake of blowing up a prized casino are left to go through with their plan.Somehow everything gets messy and complicated, and maybe no one is as sure as they seem.





	1. Chapter 1

There was a common belief of sorts that tended to drift about upon hearing the slightest utterance of his name, the slightest glance of his calculating stare.  
But despite the beliefs of the common man, Choi Seungcheol was not taunted by the loneliness of being affronted in his riches. Indeed, perhaps it was but a comfort to those who feared the empire his family had constructed. 

And yet, it was of no matter--the opinions of those who were too scared to leave the shadows would never concern him. Smallfry, they were. 

Seungcheol didn’t exactly revel in his family’s inner workings--corrupt marriages, arranged for political play and prolonged by pride. He disliked the fake niceties, knowing fully well of how every one of his uncles were already in the process of grooming his cousins for his assassination. 

When the empire came under his leadership, they would thrive. Thrive under an iron grip put into place by the eye of a businessman rather than a barbarian. It was an unspoken truth, the differences he and his father shared. 

Choi Seungcheol lived under many threats. 

However, the destruction of Blackjack property-- that was not one of them. The uprising of measly, petty gangs-- that was not one of them.

The phone call with his father had been absolutely menacing. One of their most prized casinos that fell under his care had been reduced to nothing but ashes, exposing a basement of drugs and weaponry that was supposed to have remained unknown. 

It launched them into one of the biggest scandals in decades. The Choi family, possibly affiliated with the notorious mafia? Blackjacks, no less?  
Pure speculation had become unwanted media attention, and Seungcheol could already feel the eyes of the public watching his next moves all too closely.  
Because despite what was already common knowledge, now the public had evidence.  
Distrust was the root of all downfalls, after all.  
There was a knocking at his door. 

“Come in,” He pinched the bridge of his nose, a migraine settling in from a conversation that had yet to take place. 

Jihoon entered, head lowered, knuckles whitened. He grimaced as the door shut heavily behind them, encasing the room in a glowering silence.

Seungcheol broke the silence, rapping his knuckles against the desk that sat before him. “Relax, Jihoon. I’m not going to shoot you where you stand,” 

Lee Jihoon, his head of security. Incredibly noble, incredibly ill tempered. Eye bags and an unkempt appearance despite their dress policy--noted. 

“Seungcheol, you know how serious this is. This--I should’ve--” He stammered, unwilling to meet Seungcheol’s probing gaze. 

Seungcheol felt a grin despite himself, standing to approach his trusted friend in an attempt to convey the fact that no, Jihoon, he wasn’t angry. 

“This wasn’t your fault. And even if it was, you wouldn’t be killed. You know I don’t operate like that,” Seungcheol crossed his arms, taking in Jihoon’s appearance with a faint frown. 

Jihoon snorted, “I know, I’m not following protocol. I’ve been a little worried about losing my head here. Your father--” 

“Doesn’t have the ability to kill my men. You know that, I know that-- and so does everybody else. Why else would I force you to wear suits? His men know your status,” Seungcheol watched bemusedly as Jihoon’s face colored.

“Speaking of status-- yours is going down. This revelation was exactly what the press has been hoping for, and you know that your father--” Jihoon’s speech was cut off by a curt knocking, followed by the entrance of a figure they both knew all too well. 

Junhui walked in as though he owned the place, as he was most often known to do. He seemed easily composed, a devilish smile on his face. “And while we could discuss what we already know until we turn grey, I have information you’ll both most likely want to hear,” 

Seungcheol and Jihoon exchanged glances as Junhui happily sat himself behind Seungcheol’s desk, swiveling in his chair and then promptly kicking his feet upon Seungcheol's paperwork.

Jihoon gaped, and Seungcheol only watched in dissatisfaction as his papers fluttered to the floor. “We’re listening,” 

Seungcheol could practically feel Junhui’s excitement, always one for dramatic reveals. His presence was a lighthearted one, despite his somewhat distrusting line of work. His father would always question his taste in workers, but Seungcheol knew better than to surround himself with those he didn’t have faith in. 

“They’re an underground group--Spades. Known for money laundering, small crimes. No noted rivals or easily spotted patterns. Most likely just trying to get their name out and bring you down, as well,” Junhui retracted his feet and scooted forward in his chair, grinning. “That’s the word on the street, anyway. You want me to infiltrate?” 

Seungcheol processed the information, blinking slowly. He clapped his hands together, “Not yet. A small gang pulling publicity stunts isn’t unheard of, and it’s not what I’m concerned with,” He narrowed his eyes, his stare landing on the glimmering lights of the city through glass walls. “I want to know how,” 

“Most men of your standing would just want them killed,” Jihoon sniffed, pointedly glaring at Junhui as he untangled himself from Seungcheol’s chair. 

Seungcheol waved him off, “Of course I want them killed. I just want to understand them first-- then wade off others with their example,” Seungcheol turned to Jihoon, his ambitions with the newfound trouble only growing. “Right. Get the others-- tell them I care too much for this carpet for this to be a mass execution before they ask, and tell them to remember everything they can about last night,” 

Jihoon nodded, the sound of his footfalls heavy and eager. 

Junhui approached Seungcheol’s side, his smile growing only wider. “I could bring them back alive, if you want. At least the leaders,”  
Seungcheol hummed, listening for the sound of footsteps to bring him out of his speculating thoughts. “We’ll discuss it when we learn more. For now, I need you to avoid acting on your own--I have a feeling my father will be seeking retribution,” 

Junhui slunk away, lingering against a pillar, the idea of possible looming death not deterring him in the slightest. 

As more familiar faces emerged, the atmosphere began to rise in tension, the worries and anxieties entirely felt, and entirely unspoken. 

Mingyu coughed, “I was with you, so your father can’t murder me, right? That wouldn’t seem very fair,” Mingyu grinned nervously, the gangly male being none other than Seungcheol’s bodyguard, accompanying him on a trip to Shanghai when the call had been received. 

“Seungcheol’s father doesn’t possess the power to kill any of us. At least, not publicly,” Jisoo spoke with the tone of a convict who had already been presumed guilty before trial, avoidant of Seungcheol’s eyes. 

“Relax. It was most likely my father’s men that butchered our security anyway. But the casino was under my control, so I’m taking the fall for it,” He noted the stiffness of Jisoo’s jaw, the way he placed his hand along Hansol’s shoulder, the latter drained of all color.

Hansol, being the youngest and newest recruit, had every reason to be absolutely terrified, especially since he had been working as a bartender at said casino last night. However, Seungcheol sincerely doubted that the mistakes had been his--he had proved his diligence numerous times already. There was a reason why he was suited in white, and it wasn’t just because of him being Jisoo’s cousin. 

“Um-- there were explosives. I dunno how they managed to get those through. And I thought there were a few shady guys at the bar-- but we cater to shady people anyway, so I didn’t think much of it,” Hansol met Seungcheol with confidence, despite his shaky fingers. 

Jihoon winced at the indirect mention to his security, “I checked everyone who walked through the fucking door. Someone on the inside must have let them in, and we all know damn well it wasn’t any of us,” Jihoon watched Seungcheol as he pulled a small notebook from his pocket and began scribbling on it in pen, completely oblivious to the way the smaller man watched him with utter exasperation. 

“Let me investigate. I’ll have someone before the night is over,” Junhui advocated himself once again, stepping forward with sincerity, an emotion often overlooked by the man. 

Seungcheol looked between them, choosing his words carefully. “Do any of you have any information, before we continue?” Seungcheol didn’t doubt them, not directly-- but he also knew that the retention of information could also save lives. Should they slip and say the wrong thing, admitting to dire mistakes-- it was Seungcheol’s job to kill them.  
He wouldn’t, though. Not them. Not his friends.

They didn’t refer to each other as such, mainly because the danger of having weaknesses were all too pressing-- but the sentiment remained. 

The hush continued, confirming Seungcheol’s suspicions. Still, he supposed that the details he could have gained would most likely be minimum, and it’s exact usefulness inconsequential to the overall events. 

Seungcheol couldn’t help but notice the fact that even as they were dismissed with promises of remaining vigilant, there was an air of self blame, an air of guilt.

Seungcheol swallowed the urge to send them away with guards, simply because his father realizing that he viewed them as more than useful pawns was far too dangerous. 

The phone rang, obnoxious and grating as always. Seungcheol put it to his ear with impatient fingers, “This is Choi Seungcheol speaking,” 

“Good evening, Mr.Choi. We’re calling regarding a statement on the recent revelation of your family’s involvement in the mafia?” The voice on the other end was sickeningly sweet, devoid of sympathy. 

“Speculation, nothing more. If you’ll excuse me, I’m not interested in an interview right now,” Seungcheol sighed, reaching to end the call, before the voice interrupted him once again. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not. But, you know, Mr. Choi-- you really should offer better excuses,” The voice continued, their evident sweetness worsening, turning into something far more menacing. 

Seungcheol bristled, “Excuse me?” He could feel his fist clenching, his heartbeat increasing. Only those who worked under his family had his number, so why--

“‘They were fakes’, or ‘Leftover Halloween props’ would be better. In this case, your silence proves your guilt,” The brief sound of shuffling ensued, voices lifting in the background. “But, you know-- you can get away with anything if you’re rich enough. I wonder, what will send you over the edge?” 

Seungcheol could feel anger diluting his words, alarm seeping through his veins. “Who the hell is this? How did you get this number?” 

“Bye, Cheollie. Don’t sound so scared-- we’ll be in touch,” 

He was met with silence, only the irritating sound of the phone beeping remained in place of whoever the hell just had the audacity to threaten him. 

Choi Seungcheol lived under many threats.  
And they only seemed to be increasing. 

 

Mingyu wouldn’t exactly consider himself a criminal extraordinaire, bound to the Choi family by a mystery past of angst and loss.  
He was just Seungcheol’s bodyguard, accompanying him to political gatherings and public appearances. It wasn’t a simple job, but it was certainly rewarding in it’s benefits.  
What really sold the offer to Mingyu, though, was that he didn’t lose his identity upon taking it. To Seungcheol, Mingyu was more than just an employee sent to do his bidding. It was easy for a man destined to inherit millions to get caught up in themselves, in corruption and ill placed trust.  
But Seungcheol remained a good person, confiding in Mingyu that once the Blackjacks were in his full control, it would no longer be an organization to be feared. 

Mingyu wanted to trust that kind of optimism, especially with the budget to follow through being so utterly limitless. 

He found it hard to do so, though, because a man (who Mingyu could only assume belonged to Seungcheol’s father) was currently standing outside of his penthouse, all cool eyed sunglasses and intimidating stance.

Mingyu resisted the urge to scoff. He refused to exit his mustang and found it ridiculously petty that the man had stationed himself right in front of the gates, preventing his entry. He knocked on the car window, gesturing for Mingyu to roll it down. He complied, hiding his displeasure with the whole ordeal.

Despite this, the man was all smiles. “Hi there! I hate to do this, but in fear of a security breach, I’m going to have to ask for your identification,” 

Mingyu sighed, fishing for his license out his pocket. He presented it with what he hoped was a convincing smile. 

The man leaned in closer, squinting. “Ah, sorry-- I have poor eyesight. Do you have anything with a bigger font?” 

Mingyu fought the urge to sigh. The man before him couldn’t be any older than he was, and yet he was claiming to be unable to read small lettering. Unbelievable. Who would make the choice to swap prescription glasses for sunglasses?

“Yeah-- I can look, but why aren’t you wearing regular glasses?” Mingyu flipped through his wallet, doing his best to keep a friendly demeanor. 

The man only giggled, offering a short story about his wife nagging him about something and him being so eager to leave he eventually forgot them at home. 

The man perked up suddenly, far closer to the window than Mingyu remembered. “Oh! That looks big enough, let me just--” He jostled Mingyu’s arm, causing him to drop his wallet onto the pavement below. 

“So sorry! I wish I could get that, but unfortunately, I have horrible back problems,” The man attempted to bend, only to hiss in pain. 

Mingyu withheld a sigh once more, opening his door in order to retrieve his belongings, hoping for the exchange to be over with soon enough. “I’ll get it,” He leaned over to retrieve his belongings, before a blunt hit in the back of his head sent him tumbling to the ground. 

“What--” His hand went to the gun on his belt, only to feel empty space. 

“I grabbed it when you bent over. You’re really not a good guard, are you?” A second boy stood over him, pointing the gun at his head with a strange look of judgement. 

Mingyu had to admit, he was slightly impressed. However, the overwhelming panic in his system kept him from thinking as much as he scrambled onto his feet to defend himself, unsure of whether to block the front or back. 

Cold metal pressed against his temple made Mingyu realize that he was completely and utterly defenseless. Bullets ahead of him, bullets behind. Bullets everywhere. 

He didn’t repress his sigh this time. 

The boy in front of him seemed to mouth something to the man who stood behind him, frowning. 

“You have to do the bit! We talked about this,” The whisper came from Mingyu’s left, weirdly excited.

“Do I have to? Can’t we just--”

“No! Do it!”

Mingyu used their bickering as time to think about his options. He was trained in basic self defense, but he was also trained in survival, and couldn’t find the will to attempt to break free and then be shot down a few measly seconds later. 

The boy pouted, crossing his arms as he unenthusiastically declared, “I’m Dino,” 

The man behind him shouted with vigor, “I’m DK!” 

“And together, we’re Double D!”  
Mingyu’s vision faded out as he was whacked unceremoniously once again, his body hitting the pavement as his vision faded, unsure of how to feel about his kidnappers doing a bit before knocking him unconscious.

 

Jihoon found the whole luxury thing to be a tad bit pretentious, and dealing with those who were bathed in it from the moment they exited the womb was emotionally draining.  
That was why, despite Seungcheol’s wishes--Jihoon chose to live in a modest apartment a few blocks down from his designated workplace. He didn’t waste money on transportation, and he avoided dealing with those who used their wealth to compensate for a lack of intelligence.  
Seungcheol had always insisted that the building was too risky, and that the security wasn’t even comparable to one of his own buildings that Jihoon could happily preside in. And while that may be true, Jihoon resented having to rely on him for everything--this was something he could do himself.  
Besides, it was nice pretending to be a normal civilian returning from a boring desk job every now and then. 

The elevator dinged softly, the desk attendant being halfway asleep upon his arrival. He was on the younger side-- a college student, maybe? Jihoon wasn’t sure, and he found that he was apathetic regardless of the situation. 

He made a beeline for the elevator, hoping to avoid any obliged pleasantries that came with being alone with a stranger in a decently hospitable environment, because if there was one thing Jihoon despised more than the stupidly rich; it was small talk. 

Jihoon’s outstretched hand froze in place at the sound of the man suddenly startling behind him, waking up rather suddenly from his slumber. 

“Hey, you there! You need to check in,” The boy called out to him, shaking off any lingering drowsiness. 

Jihoon felt a physical ache as he reluctantly drew his hand away from the elevator, scowling. He shuffled over to the man, who was watching his actions bemusedly. 

Jihoon scoffed, “I got in with a key, didn’t I? This is redundant,”  
The attendee only offered a sympathetic smile as he stretched. “Sorry, gotta follow the rules. Name?” 

Jihoon stiffened, uncertain of how to feel about the strange sense of anticipation that seemed to be exerted from the man-- was his shift almost over? “Lee Jihoon, room seventeen. Need my license?” 

The man examined him with a grin, typing something on the computer in front of him without sparing much of a glance. Jihoon wasn’t particularly sure why, but the man somehow managed to resemble a hamster.  
It could just be the mind numbing exhaustion talking, though. 

“Nope, that should do it. Ah! It says here that you had a package delivered early this morning. Would you like me to get it?” The man glanced up at him, the corners of his lips pulling upward. 

Jihoon racked his brain, remembering ordering some blockbuster novel a few days prior. He nodded, wanting nothing more than to retire to his bed. 

The hamster man scurried along to a backroom, and then continued to push an awkwardly large box out of the room behind him, panting. “Man, this thing is heavy. Would you like some help getting this bad boy to your room?” 

Jihoon glanced at the package, unimpressed. “That’s not mine, sorry.” 

The attendee looked at the box, dumbfounded. “That’s weird-- it has your name written all over it,” 

Jihoon tensed, his hand resting on his belt, knowing all too well that if he pulled out a firearm on an innocent person he’d be in deep shit. “You read the wrong name, then,” He hesitated, not wanting to turn his back as his suspicion only grew. 

The man simply grinned, the anticipation in the room building. 

The head of the package burst as a tall, dark haired man stood, gun drawn, his features cold and deprived. 

Jihoon drew his own weapon, “I never liked theatrics. Waste of time,” He glared at the strangers, taking in the way they eyed him hungrily. 

“With a mission as easy as this?” The attendant cracked his knuckles, excited. “You need theatrics-- gotta keep things interesting,” 

The sound of sirens in the distance cause Jihoon to grimace as his hold tightened. “You called the cops,” His eyes widened, looking between them both with indignation. “How the fuck--”

“Fifteen minutes ago, before you got here. Report of a possibly dangerous individual,” Hamster man smirked, incredibly pleased with himself. “Your arrest will make headlines, especially once they figure out who you work for,” 

Jihoon stiffened, an unspoken threat in the air. He dropped the handgun to the floor, kicking it aggressively in the stranger’s general direction. “The hell do you want?” 

The two men exchanged looks, the moody one refusing to lower his weapon. “Drop,” 

The next minutes were spent with a silently fuming Jihoon, his temper fueled and will to live tested as he was bound and gagged, and then stuffed under the check in desk as passive aggressive hamster boy explained that the call had been a false alarm, swinging his legs into Jihoon’s stomach all the while. 

The taller, brooding, unkempt looking guy sent icy glares his way, only making Jihoon want to break his composure and introduce him to nothing but pain. 

Upon the police’s dismissal, Jihoon’s face was vandalised with a pen as he cursed against the cloth in his mouth. There was a picture taken (with the flash on, mind you) revealing the words ‘Hoshi & Wonu were here’ in a messy, kindergarten like scribble across the span of his forehead. 

Oh, and several depictions of the male genitalia as well. Jihoon couldn’t forget those if he tried, particularly the one that incorporated the use of his nose. 

Jihoon had never minded small spaces very much, but then again, he had never been stuffed in the back of a trunk, either. 

At least, in the worst of times-- he was finally able to relent to his persistent fatigue, and be well rested in the face of death.

Just like his parents would have wanted, surely. 

 

Remember that time when Seungcheol said for Junhui not to investigate on his own? Junhui doesn’t. Or at least, he’s going to pretend not to, because sitting and waiting for the enemy to strike had to be one of the worst plans he’s ever heard. 

Of course, enemy unpredictability was a decent enough reason to avoid any direct course of action. 

Thankfully for Junhui, snooping through shady back alleyways and eavesdropping in numerous illegal locations happened to be somewhat of a hobby for him. People loitering in drug dens knew him, bartenders knew him-- if Junhui was around, you knew that he was looking for information. 

Luckily, Junhui was more than willing to forge deals and splurge money in order to attain said information. It’s who he is, it’s what he does. 

And during Junhui’s journey through the somewhat riskier side of town, he realized fairly quickly that he was being followed. 

They were straying towards the back, avoiding being in his direct line of vision. Although they clearly wanted him to note their presence, because with every corner he turned, with every measly place he left behind-- there was always that same someone, a blur in the night, stepping in, stepping out. 

Junhui knew the underside of the city like the back of his hand. He could escape if he truly wanted to, relieve himself the physical burden of a confrontation.  
But the chance of missing valuable information was far too alarming, far too disappointing for him to really consider the thought an appropriate action to take.  
He could hear Seungcheol’s voice in his head, chastising him about not being careful enough, that one day his tendency to chase thrills would kill him. 

Junhui halted his strolling, gazing up at the worn down factory with content. 

His tag along shadow wanted to play a game of cat and mouse, didn’t they? 

“I know you’re there. And I know that you know I know you’re there,” Junhui stepped forward lightly, climbing into the looming building through a shattered window, dust and debris following his movements. “I’ll be waiting,” His voice carried through the alleyway, lilted. 

Junhui examined rusty machinery, his finger trailing over faded railings as he descended upwards on a faulty staircase, his heartbeat refusing to stutter even as they bent beneath his weight. 

The minutes led on, leaving Junhui to his thoughts as he hummed, idly looking over the lights that illuminated the other side of the city. 

He could feel eyes on his back, resting, unseen. 

“I like this part of town. You can see the sky clearly when you’re away from all the buildings,” Junhui stretched, a grin gracing his features as he turned to confront his opponent, his heart thrumming with even the vaguest thoughts of exerting himself in a fight. His voice carried through the room, a slow paced drawl. 

They leaned against the wall, the moonlight outlining their figure. 

And in a flurry of limbs and the blur of movement, the stranger made their attack.

They met Junhui bluntly, aiming for his ribs, for his head-- reducing him to defensive, evasive tactics. They were agile and quick footed, swift with their movements and strategies. 

Junhui hadn’t faced opposition so greatly entertaining in quite a while. 

They were a mess of tangled limbs and evenly set blows, each mirroring the other. A kick there, a strike there, unbalance them here-- but neither were able to overpower the other, leaving them both to their frustrations.

“It would have been easier to shoot me--but I appreciate your style,” Junhui kneed the stranger with a jerky, upward tug, sending them reeling.

They grunted, slamming their fist into his jaw in retaliation. Junhui spit, the taste of iron heavy in his mouth. “It’s difficult to find people who dabble in martial arts in this line of work,” His sentences were growing quicker as his concentration increased, less concerned with the initial objective and more preoccupied with enjoying the thrill of the fight, of the adrenaline flowing through his veins. 

Junhui put forth a few more hits, directed at various designated weak points, before the stranger collapsed to the dirtied floor, a mangled heap of exhaustion as they hacked viciously, falling into the silver glow of the moonlight-- revealing tufty hair and tanned skin. 

Junhui happily leaned forward, his muscles aching at the prospect of having to escort the man to Seungcheol at an ungodly hour of the night.

“You’re good, friend.” Junhui lifted the gangly man into his arms, readying to hoist him over his shoulder, his words slowing upon properly seeing the stranger’s face. “But not good enough,” The words trailed off, leaving Junhui to search amber eyes as they stared through him, narrowed and rather displeased. The man’s face was bruised, mirroring his own-- and yet, rather than admiring the damage, Junhui found his movements growing less hastened, and more distracted. 

Something fluttery wedged itself into the pit of Junhui’s stomach, his chest tightening.  
And for the first time in his life, Junhui froze. 

With the abrupt move of an arm and the fluttering of fabric, cloth was pressed firmly against his face, burning his throat as he inhaled in shock. 

“You talk too much,” A honey coated whisper met Junhui’s ears as his limbs numbed, his mind blanking with fog. 

The man’s shirt slipped from his collarbones as he readjusted, glaring down at Junhui steadily. 

His eyes fell upon a scarring along the stranger’s chest, his surroundings beginning to fade. 

‘The8’, small but ever present, the discoloration eye catching in a briefly saddening kind of way.

Junhui doesn’t remember being moved, but he must have been--because he awoke in a dark, confined space; Jihoon staring back at him with furious, wide eyes.

 

Jisoo couldn’t say that working as a head of finances for the mafia was exactly what he had hoped to amount to. He was young, he had dreams--music, being one that he often caught himself hoping for. And more often than not, he couldn’t quite manage to crush those hopes entirely, opting for storing them away instead, because even if a part of him still enjoyed the comfort of it, there was a louder, more logistical side-- that reminded him that mafia members didn’t get fairytale endings. 

But all things considered, Jisoo has done well with himself. He lives in a nice space owned by Seungcheol, and he had managed to work hard enough to pay for Hansol’s living expenses as well, moved from the slums upon their reunion. 

Jisoo was not supposed to have survived, that was something he knew well. He was a no name, not listed in any government forms, not accounted for. 

Jisoo was born to live a life destined to be forgotten.

And because of that forsaken destiny, Jisoo could appreciate the chance he’s gotten. 

For he and Hansol both, this was the closest thing to a fairytale ending that could be hoped for. 

Choi Seungcheol was a terrifyingly powerful man, the heir to the Blackjacks and multi million fortune, his father grooming him for the world of politics since he was old enough to speak. 

Jisoo was fortunate enough to have ended up in the hands of someone with a sensible head on their shoulders, despite those odds having been against them. 

Some might say that work he did was morally grey, wrong, disgusting. 

But Jisoo would do what was needed for the sake of he and Hansol to defy the odds that had been decided for them, even if he agreed with the accusations. 

And whoever it was that had a gun aimed at his head apparently knew that. Jisoo was completely lost as to how, exactly, he had been found in the first place-- seeing as he was undocumented and relented to Seungcheol paying his monthly expenses (and then having Jisoo pay him back, paperwork being a fickle thing), and yet here they were.  
Jisoo had been rudely awoken and then escorted to the sofa, where Hansol was already fidgeting, forced blankness on his uncertain features. 

Jisoo sat next to him, silently pleading for Hansol to keep his composure, and then remembering that he was the more likely out of the two of them to crack. 

The man that had interrupted Jisoo’s peaceful slumber had made himself comfortable by sitting on the coffee table, contempt-- and by the look of the delicate spade tattoo below his left eye, he wasn’t very fond of concealing his identity. 

There was a pleased curve of his lips, fox like eyes examining him closely. Jisoo refused to waver under his open scrutiny, choosing instead to break the silence. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He was aware of the somewhat lack of bite in his tone, his voice soft and withered. But it had it’s desired effect, as the man before let out a sardonic huff. 

“We’re here to extend an invitation of sorts. You see, I’m very interested in what your job pertains to,” Upon the mention of another presence, Jisoo stiffened. A man he hadn’t previously seen stepped forward from behind the loveseat, avoiding catching Jisoo’s glare. Next to him, Hansol exhaled slowly. 

Jisoo wasn’t one to waver in his loyalty. But Seungcheol had known from the beginning that if the time ever came, Jisoo would choose Hansol over anything else. And so, while there was no obvious threat to the Spade’s words, when working in the mafia, one always learned of unspoken promises beneath charismatic smiles and friendly banter. 

“If you’re asking for a logistic overview of the Choi family,” Jisoo crossed his legs, feigning disinterest. “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. I only work for Choi Seungcheol, and no one else-- his information is all I know. And I’m assuming you have a fair idea of that already,” 

The man straightened the cuff on his dress shirt, unperturbed and frankly looking rather amused. His stare felt as though it was seeing through Jisoo in his entirety. “That’s unfortunate,” He cocked his head to the side, eyes widening, speaking as if he were addressing a child. “But, you know, I find that hard to believe that in this political atmosphere, Cheollie never once asked you to do any snooping. Or maybe,” 

His eyes narrowed, a sly grin sending a chill down Jisoo’s spine as he realized that whoever the Spades were, and whoever sat before him--they knew far more than Jisoo could have ever feared. “Maybe you had some things you wanted to confirm for yourself, given your position,” 

Jisoo swallowed harshly. There was no possibility, no way that they knew what he had tried so hard to keep locked away. 

“Seungkwan,” The man gestured for his companion to come forth, which he complied with easily, stacks of paperwork falling from his clammy grasp onto the coffee table. 

“Using real names,” Jisoo commented lightly, his slight indifferent questioning acknowledged with a gentle hum.

“Yes, well, not everyone has something to hide.” He looked through the files flippantly; Jisoo could feel Hansol shifting next to him, his eyes probing Jisoo for an explanation he wasn’t ready to give. 

“You’ve assisted in numerous cases of federal tax evasions, and shared many calls with now deactivated numbers-- and yet, from what we could find, you seem to dirty your hands for your boss’s father,” He leaned forward on his palms, his eyes gleaming. 

Jisoo met his gaze evenly, even as he inwardly flinched at the revelation. “Those prove nothing,” 

Hansol looked between Jisoo and the papers, confusion evident in the way he glanced between the other three men, his eyes never quite landing on one face alone. 

“You’re right, they don’t.” A small photograph was held up to Jisoo’s eye level, reflecting a much younger version of himself staring pathetically back at him, covered in grime, hot tears spilling from his reddened eyes. 

Jisoo found that he couldn’t force himself to break his stare. 

“You’re a political pawn.” The man’s tone softened, but his gaze held a steady kind of ruthlessness that was far more telling than any of the evidence provided against him. “You were taken off the streets from a sweatshop, and then forced into mafia labor work. That’s what we know-- at least, that’s what we’ve gotten,” The man’s smile was sickening, and Jisoo could feel dread numbing any other sensation. 

“It was only in recent years that we have record of you working for Choi Seungcheol himself. And yet, you still continue to make deposits to multiple banking accounts, and undermine his political agenda completely by choosing to meet with various officials,” There were photographs of Jisoo standing in alleyways, conversing with notable mafia figures, none of them having any relation to Seungcheol or his goals. 

But Seungcheol's father-- his father knew those men.

Just as his father knew him. 

“You somehow convinced Seungcheol to pay for your cousin’s departure from the states as well. A notable accomplishment--I commend you for taking strides for self preservation,” 

Jisoo felt the burn of his eyes, the burn of the raging guilt he had hoped to keep at bay.

“I do wonder what will happen when the Chois realize that you’re playing both sides--after all, there have been many detriments to his father’s plans as well.” The stranger shifted, the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes not nearly as prominent as Jisoo had been expecting. 

His smirk fell into something more serious, a thin line overtaking his confident smile. “You’ve had experience as a double agent before. I see no reason to stop now,” 

Seungkwan leaned forward to tape a small note on the underside of the table, surprisingly stiff as he did so. Hansol opened his mouth to address Jisoo directly, to confront him about his actions, to inquire as to why, exactly, he was so incredibly unaware of this. 

“Yoon Jeonghan. I look forward to hearing from you soon,” Jeonghan nodded at him, pleased and expectant. 

Jisoo couldn’t find the words he needed-- there were none. No defenses, no indignant denials and angry rejections. 

He could only feel a hollow sense of reluctance-- reluctance to continue, and if not for the threat of Hansol’s safety, maybe he would have refused to comply. Maybe he would have requested to be exposed, because he knew that in the end, it was what he deserved. 

It never fell from his lips, his throat dry, head reeling. 

“I don’t understand,” Hansol murmured, seemingly more afraid of Jisoo’s betrayal than of the situation currently at hand. 

“Later,” Jisoo croaked, his eyes trained on the floor. 

He knew his circumstance. He knew what his actions meant for him, what kind of person they made him.

Jisoo had questioned himself plenty of times before, and this was no exception. 

But the hurt bewilderment that Hansol regarded him with certainly was. 

Jisoo couldn’t register the feeling of fingers along his clothes, the sensations dulled by the steady thrumming of disdain for himself, and uncertainty for what awaited. 

He was bound, metaphorically, and now physically--although it seemed as though Jeonghan chose to at least show the slightest sign of sympathy by allowing Jisoo the ability to move in his restraints. 

If he listened carefully enough, Jisoo thought he could hear small whispers coming from the pair to his left as Seungkwan cuffed Hansol’s arms behind his back.

And although Jisoo wasn’t overly fond of the idea of Hansol getting well acquainted with their kidnappers, he supposed that they may need at least a single friendly face within the Spades themselves. 

After all, it seemed that they’d be working relatively closely for an unspecified amount of time. 

And, not for the first time, Jisoo found himself entertaining what might have happened if he would have just remained working in that musty, overcrowded factory. 

Because surely nothing could feel worse than simply existing as a living, breathing betrayal to a dear friend. 

 

It was hardly sunrise when Seungcheol was alerted to a faint, muffled thumping coming from the door-- having just began preparing for the day’s activities. 

Seungcheol wasn’t expecting visitors, or anything of the like-- and so he did what any reasonable criminal may, and reached for one of his many firearms hidden about the penthouse. 

Seungcheol had learned to expect a lot of things. However, after checking the security camera, he realized he still had many things he needed to prepare for. 

Apparently, all of his closest confidants bound and gagged at his doorstep was one of those things.

Distressed and extremely befuddled, Seungcheol hustled to free them from their numerous ties and attempted to calm down a raging Jihoon, who was gesturing at the obscene drawings littered across his face with a nearly hysterical amount of unadulterated fury. 

Mingyu was vying for Seungcheol’s attention, the briefest complaints of better security on his tongue, something that did nothing to appease Jihoon’s foulness whatsoever.

Junhui was humming rather contentedly for a man covered in bruises, seeming all too pleased despite his evident loss in combat. 

Hansol lingered away from the group, unfocused and distant. Seungcheol noted that he would need to console him later, seeing as he was still young and not quite used to the mafia’s brutish lifestyle. 

Jisoo’s expression was indecipherable as he ignored Seungcheol’s attempts at appeasement, seemingly tuning out his claims that the sheer mortification of it all would be a thing of the past upon their imminent revenge.

And then Jisoo reached for the remote, turning on the television in an unblinking haze. 

At first, the ruckus was still very much present-- but upon hearing a familiar voice echoing through the room, all parties seemed to hush respectively.

The phone call. 

Seungcheol’s phone call was being played, his voice being compared to other videos of him speaking at political meetings and seminars. His own wariness surprised him, and the shame coursing through his veins ran red hot through his system. 

His father owned this station, didn’t he? So how-- so why--

And then came Jihoon’s humiliation. Pictures of him in all of his horrible shame, covered in dark scribbles as a small caption under his name spoke of his status as Seungcheol’s head of security, red arrows pointing out his smaller frame in blurred photos and old news footage from elite events. 

“Bye, Cheollie. Don’t sound so scared-- we’ll be in touch,” 

And there was that grating, overly docile voice.

Jihoon chucked the remote at the tv, blood draining from his face, his rage silent as he crossed his arms with trembling fingers. 

Junhui, for once, seemed absolutely dumbstruck, with no clever quips, no knowing glances of amused indifference.

Mingyu slumped against the kitchen counter, staring at the surface as if it would somehow give him an answer for whatever the hell was going on. 

Jisoo followed, limp and distant as Hansol dragged him towards the balcony, the younger rigid in his movements. 

Seungcheol had many things to be afraid of.  
This was never supposed to be one of them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Spades celebrate the first of many victories that were sure to come--but tension is rising and resolve is dwindling. 
> 
> When taking in obstacles that they needed to be prepared for when disrupting an empire, human emotion was not a factor that had been discussed.

The night was alive with an excited buzz, glasses clinking together clumsily as cheers escaped through merrily parted lips.  
It was evening, the stars twinkling high and bright in the sky, the moon wide; casting a silver light through the apartment’s windows. 

Jeonghan was perfectly content to refrain from the yelling, much unlike Soonyoung, Chan and Seokmin-- who couldn’t quite seem to keep their elation at bay. Still, he thought it suitable to offer a small congratulation to the lot of them, the odds having been against them from the beginning-- hence the way he was starting to feel drowsy, hence the way the atmosphere was growing rowdy. 

It was the evening of their first major success-- phase one had be completed. Startle the heir, let him lose his sense of comfort, and take his entire team down with him. After all, a King is only what his pawns allow him to be. 

“Did you see the drawings?” Soonyoung’s face was beginning to flush lightly, his giggles only fueled by the light slur to his words. “That was me. I did that,” 

Jeonghan found himself snorting into his glass, “Obviously. You haven’t stopped talking about it since it happened,” He crossed his legs, vaguely aware of the way Seungkwan lingered near the counter, quieter than what was considered normal. 

Deciding against putting him on the spot, however, Jeonghan instead addressed their youngest member, who was currently reading all the articles he could find online, deftly working in tracing their sources to see exactly how many of them had affiliations to the Blackjacks. “A little birdy told me that Chan decided to do Seokmin’s bit after all,” Jeonghan found that his voice was laced with petulance, “And yet, he’s still so stubborn when it comes to--”

“Don’t mention it,” Chan interrupted him, hasty, his ears reddening; and not from intoxication. “I--I just wanted to move on with the mission,” He stammered, taking a quick glance up from his screen before the steady rhythm of his typing resumed. 

Next to him, Wonwoo studied the computer screen, his eyes narrowing. “There’s no opinionated articles, just speculation.” He frowned, the slightest hint of disapproval in his tone. 

“They’re afraid,” Seungkwan chimed in, his voice airy despite his somewhat sulken features. “Media censorship. You can’t take down the content after it's been seen, but you can take down the source-- no one ever has anything negative to say,” 

Seokmin pursed his lips at that, the teasing jostling between he and Soonyoung halting. “It won’t be long before they start doubting the Choi family’s influence, though. Not if we get through our next phases,” 

And as interested as Jeonghan was in how the public was reacting to their stunts so far, he couldn’t help the displeasure that rang high in his system upon seeing their youngest so insistent to be working during a time of relaxation. 

And if there was one way to distract him, well-- Jeonghan would do it, even if Chan had requested him not to. “Whose baby are you, Chan?” 

Chan’s stare remained on the monitor, unblinking. “No,” 

Soonyoung leaned across the sofa to pinch his cheeks, whereas Seokmin ruffled his hair from behind. 

Chan groaned, “Let me do my work in peace--I’m trying to make sure our source is following through with his promise,” Though his words attempted an air of urgency, Chan’s pouty expression made it all but, his hair now splayed in many different directions while his cheeks had pink, finger shaped marks. 

“He will.” Minghao entered through the doorway, having gone unnoticed by the rest of them--a surprisingly common practice. “At least, he should, as long as he stays in such a risky position,” His eyes fell upon Jeonghan as he spoke, a not so subtle nudge at a recent suggestion made. 

“He could be more useful if we move him onto our team. That way, he’ll tell us everything, and not just what we ask of him,” Jeonghan sniffed, refilling his glass somewhat generously. “Besides, what with his history, it might be easier to persuade him than we originally thought,” 

“He’ll never trust us completely unless we remove him from his situation entirely,” Minghao set his coat down across a dining room chair, a slight agitation to him as he pulled the seat out for himself. “And if we do, then nothing stops him from running back to whoever he’s really loyal to. We’ll have nothing to go on,” 

“Could we address it later?” Seungkwan huffed, his eyes travelling between them both before settling on the view of the city. “We’re supposed to be celebrating,” 

 

Jeonghan hummed in distant agreement as Minghao chose to forgo a response, instead pulling a bottle of wine from a wrinkled paper bag and placing it amongst their supply.

The previous argument left behind (but certainly not entirely dealt with), Jeonghan found a slight fatigue starting to settle over his limbs. Soonyoung’s bubbly energy quickly dissipated, leaving the man sprawled out onto the floor where he had so gracefully decided to black out. Wonwoo stepped over his frame blankly, unfazed as he made a silent goodbye, retiring to the room he and Minghao shared. 

The two quietest, they shared a kind of diligence that Jeonghan admired, even if their reluctance to make idle conversation was a trait they didn’t exactly share. 

Seokmin, being the good natured guy that he was, lifted Soonyoung onto the couch and draped a quilt over him, however stained by recent alcoholic beverage it may be. 

Chan insisted that bedding wasn’t a priority for him, and was perfectly content to retiring on the floor next to an outlet, swaddled in blankets and obscured by a pillow fort. When teased for it, Chan had said it was to keep Jeonghan from bothering him while he worked, but truthfully, Jeonghan wondered if he missed the childhood he gave up for his cause. 

Seokmin leaned back into a cushioned chair, snoring lightly as his head lolled on his shoulder. 

Jeonghan moved to join Minghao at the table, Seungkwan glancing at the both of them, but not quite moving-- they were close enough to converse without the distance being awkward. 

“You’re the only one who hasn’t talked about your target,” Jeonghan grinned, mischievous. “Was he as dashingly handsome as the rumors said?” He placed a hand against his forehead, swooning. “‘Oh, he’s such a dreamboat, he killed my drug dealer and saved me a fortune!’” 

“Firstly, that woman was crazy and you know it. Secondly,” Minghao stiffened, his jaw tightening, brows furrowing in confusion. “He was so weird. He didn’t try to avoid me, and he knew I was there and wanted to fight anyway. He was trying to make conversation,” Minghao shook his head, massaging his temples. “Good at fighting, I guess,” 

Jeonghan nodded, knowing fully well that the brief description of Minghao’s frustrations was all that he was likely to get. 

Jeonghan found his gaze straying to Seungkwan, who still had yet to show a glimmer of his usual, bright self. 

He fidgeted under the weight of Jeonghan’s stare, pretending not to notice and failing. Minghao peered at him curiously, and Jeonghan knew that if he were Minghao, he would say nothing and leave Seungkwan to himself. 

Fortunately, Jeonghan was Jeonghan, and instead opted for probing now that most everyone had retired to some form of resting. “How is your guilt?” His words were blunt, causing Seungkwan to startle as he looked in between both Jeonghan and Minghao’s frame, wide eyed. 

“I’m not. Why would you think that? We’re not--I mean, I’m not--” Seungkwan stammered slightly, flustered. His voice lowered, he murmured, “It’s just weird. Going from-- I don’t know, this to that.” 

Jeonghan didn’t have to question what his statement meant, exactly, seeing as Seungkwan had acted for several months on his orders. He sighed, “I know. He was nice, right? He didn’t seem involved enough to be corrupt, but Hansol got us the information we needed,” 

And he knew that it wasn’t comforting, speaking Seungkwan’s guilt into existence, but ignoring it may cause it thrive and they couldn’t afford that. 

“Do you know how hard it was?” Seungkwan attempted to keep his voice at bay, to resist the indignation in the way he glared at Jeonghan. “I had to pretend to be his friend, and then just--” Seungkwan faltered, averting his eyes.

Jeonghan respected Seungkwan’s ability to feel as deeply as he did. And while Jeonghan wouldn’t consider himself as remorseless as Wonwoo, or quite as caught up in his own emotions as Soonyoung, playing the pawns the right way was never something he had managed to find too much guilt in. After all, what they were working for, it was worth it. 

For them, and for so many others. 

“Seungkwan,” It was Minghao who spoke his name, hushed, firm. “Remember who he’s working for. This is bigger than us,” It was a gentle reminder, but a reminder nonetheless. ‘Don’t get sidetracked, don’t let them detach you from your goal.’

Seungkwan snorted, bitter. “What, are you going to kill me?” 

Jeonghan had done it before. Not directly, but his teammates--some of them had. Under his direction, under his guidance. But for every man that currently lay in his grave, how many others had he tormented to get there? 

There was a line, though. And as strong willed as Jeonghan may be, he promised himself not to cross it. “Not a friend. We don’t operate that way,” There was a shift as Minghao excused himself, murmuring something about a headache. 

Jeonghan checked his watch, his lips falling into a thinned line upon reading the time. He glanced up at Seungkwan, who still seemed on the petulant side.

“You won’t have to talk to him again. That should help,” Jeonghan pushed the chairs in that lay out and forgotten, a habit of theirs. He was thankful that they relied on their own dishes rather than foam and plastic--the mess was much easier to clean, especially knowing that Soonyoung was on kitchen chores tomorrow. 

Seungkwan only hummed in acknowledgement, not quite meeting Jeonghan’s glances. 

Satisfied, Jeonghan retired to the room that he and Seungkwan shared, deciding that he had done more than enough pushing for one night.

 

Minghao was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and never had too much resistance in him when he was instructed to go into the shadier parts of town. Still, the idea was something that he wasn’t exactly looking forward to-- especially what with where he was going. 

Taverns and underground brothels were one thing, but drug dens were an entire entity all on their own--combined with the corrupt ministrations of the mafia, it was a mess. 

Why, exactly, he and Wonwoo of all people had been requested to attend was only understandable in comparison to his comrades. Soonyoung was far too widely known for his own good in these parts--Seokmin was too easily spotted as a friendly face to take advantage of, Chan was too young, and Seungkwan had insisted that he would rather do 'literally anything else'. 

Jeonghan was currently out and about as well, taking Seokmin with him as they went to meet their newfound informative. The thought made Minghao shift in discomfort, their differing opinions on the matter still fresh in his mind. 

Jeonghan was an incredible planner, witty and sly, knowing what things to say and how to get under the skin of his enemies. And although his confidence in the plan wasn’t misplaced, Minghao couldn’t help but feel as though adding an unnecessary step would only serve to slow them down rather than speed up their accomplishments. 

Minghao found his walk slowing as he was faced with the outdoors of the place, his heartbeat increasing if only slightly. Walking head first into mafia territory wasn’t ideal, what with given their tendency to kill and his somewhat antagonistic position with them, currently--but Wonwoo would be arriving later so not as to arouse suspicion, and Minghao stalling outside would only deter that time frame. 

Minghao had to stop himself from hacking upon his entry, the enclosed space smoky, the air littered with a variety of scents Minghao found that he didn’t quite want to identify. He could feel eyes on his back from a side doorway, whistles and calls coming from apart of the space that Minghao decided not to acknowledge. 

The task was simple--eavesdrop, find possible recruits, make nice, and leave. That was all that was required of him, but the repulsion of seeing too many familiar profiles made bile rise in his throat.  
They wouldn’t have remembered him, even so, he still felt jittery as he took a reluctant seat upon a bar stool, the lower half of his face covered by a threaded scarf-- common among criminals who didn’t exactly care for their faces being spread online, or their appearance being described in newspapers. 

And it wasn’t until after he began chatting the bartender, casual, nothing to cause alarm--did Minghao find that his bad feeling was entirely appropriate after all. 

The bartender had excused herself upon seeing another figure a few seats down, all pleasant smiles and a calm demeanor despite her chaotic workplace. Minghao found himself lost within the worries in his head, not drawn back out of them until a small shot was placed in front of him.

Minghao opened his mouth to inform the bartender of her mistake, because he hadn’t ordered yet--to which she replied with the nudge of her head to their left, gesturing to the person she had attended to only moments ago. 

Minghao glanced over, and found that he suddenly couldn’t breathe quite right. His chest was constricted, and his hands wrung tightly in his lap. 

Because there, leaning on his palm like the satisfied piece of shit that he was, was Wen Junhui-- the man he had tricked and beaten not even two days prior. And maybe Minghao could still play everything off, his face was covered, after all-- and it was entirely possible that Junhui didn’t recognize him. 

His hopes spiralled down the drain as soon as Junhui casually slid into the seat next to him, as if he and Minghao had known each other for their entire lives-- and then happily offered a sly smile, glancing curiously at the drink Minghao had yet to touch. “It’s not poisoned--I’m not petty enough to do that. If I wanted to kill you, I’d do it myself,” He spoke the words like they were supposed to make Minghao feel better about the situation somehow. 

Minghao narrowed his eyes, not offering a reply as he fidgeted, his eyes scanning the room for a barrel of a gun pointed in his direction, or maybe the glinting of a knife out of the corner of his eye. 

Junhui sighed, “Didn’t I just tell you? If I wanted you dead, I’d be fighting you--and I’m guessing you know that, since you guys seem to know everything about everything already,” 

Minghao repressed a flinch at the mention of their group, unsure of how to respond. With a sigh, he glared at the shot glass, and with an air of caution, allowed the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. 

“Are you a boxer? Because you knock me out,” 

The words caused Minghao to choke, literally-- as he fought to keep the searing alcohol down his throat. He grabbed the bar with a heavy hand, his eyes watering. 

Junhui watched him, unblinking. “Nothing too strong--noted. Anyway, I thought that was pretty clever, it took me a day to come up with it, what with you kidnapping me and all,” 

In between breaths, Minghao managed a few raspy words. “What--fuck, what--” He pounded a hand against his chest, his coughing dying down as he stared at Junhui in utter disbelief. “Are you-- are you trying to seduce me?” 

Junhui raised his eyebrows, leaning forward. “Is it working?” 

Minghao scowled at him, his glare not disrupting the man’s smile in the slightest. “No, it’s not. I’m not dumb enough to let you get me out of here and kill me,” He could feel himself growing restless, uncertain with how Wonwoo would react upon his arrival. 

“Hmm, that would be a good idea, wouldn’t it?” Junhui tapped his fingers along the counter top’s smooth surface, humming. “But I have better ones. For example, we could use you in the Blackjacks,” His eyes were glittering with amusement as Minghao openly recoiled.

“I’m not interested--in you, or your weird games. You’re not going to kill me, and you’re not going to lure me away for interrogation,” Minghao found that his blatant rejection forced Junhui’s expression into one of neutrality. 

“I see. And how much do you know about the Blackjacks, The8?” If Junhui caught the sour look on Minghao’s features he was completely unperturbed, always a glimmer of something behind fox like eyes. 

Minghao didn’t like it. He didn’t like Junhui’s weird and obvious schemes, as if he expected them to work-- his skill was admirable, but how he managed such a kill count was beyond Minghao since his strategy was tragic at best. 

When he chose not to answer, Junhui only chuckled slightly. “You know enough to humiliate us, and you’ve put a friend of mine in a terrible spot, I admit--so I’m obligated to hate you at the moment,” He leaned back in his seat, the stool under him swaying. “But, whatever it is you’re doing this for, I think that you’re being misled,” 

Minghao snorted, venom seeping through his words as he scoffed. “Please. The Blackjacks are notorious for their inhumane crimes,” He found his frown deepening, “You can’t lie to me,”

Junhui quirked a brow, seemingly genuinely surprised at the notion, as if he wasn’t a crooked murderer with a reputation. “Oh, I’m not lying--I mean, not right now--but I do lie sometimes. Doesn’t everyone?” 

In response to his casual tone and overall irritating demeanor, Minghao kicked Junhui’s stool and sent him toppling over onto the floor covered in shoe marks and dried liquor. The impact was loud, but noise wasn’t unusual for the place, what with it’s rowdy inhabitants-- so the clattering only attracted a few stray looks and irritated glances.

Junhui’s irking smile had increased tenfold by the time he righted himself on his seat again, and much to Minghao’s dismay, he laughed off the action good naturedly.

“There you go again,” Junhui placed a hand to his chest, “Sending me and my heart flying,” 

“Aren’t you guys supposed to love revenge? Why aren’t you killing me?” Minghao, for the second time, found himself scanning the room, much to Junhui’s amusement. 

“We do love revenge. But I just don’t really want to kill you right now, truthfully,” Junhui’s smile was disarming, but there was something in the way he was so unabashed in everything he did that would’ve made Minghao think twice about him, whether or not his identity was known. 

“Truth,” Minghao repeated, sarcasm coating his words. “What could the mafia possibly know about truth?” An obvious jab towards the media coverage and constant cover ups, Minghao knew he was walking on thin ice, and despite every warning system in his brain telling him to be quiet, to keep his thoughts to himself as he usually did--something about Junhui’s mannerisms led him to do otherwise. 

And true to his track record, he didn’t seem keen on slaughtering Minghao in front of an audience. 

“What does anyone?” Junhui crossed his legs, undeterred, eyes glinting in the soft, mellow artificial light. “The truth is what we want it to be-- someone could believe a lie, or not believe honesty, and then the lines are blurred,” Junhui grinned, “The truth is a victim of circumstance, and there’s never just one,” 

Minghao didn’t like the way that resonated with him, didn’t like the way that Junhui’s lips turned upwards as his eyes widened slightly. He turned away, and in doing so, spotted a familiar figure lingering on the edge of the walls-- and Minghao dimly realized that Wonwoo must have arrived long ago. 

He supposed that he had wasted the night, but still, the additional read on Junhui’s strange persona would most likely be useful for them in the future despite it coming at the expense of Minghao’s sanity. 

Without excusing himself, Minghao pushed the bar stool in to it’s original spot, earning a snort from Junhui and a comment about how polite he was being. 

Junhui’s voice lowered as he whispered what Minghao supposed was that of a goodbye, “I’ll see you under different circumstances next time, The8. And maybe then you’ll find the truth you look so hard for,” 

Minghao’s pulse raced as he refused to dignify the statement with a response, deciding that he had done more than enough damage already, because apparently the mask did absolutely nothing to conceal his identity. 

Wonwoo was arranged to stay after his departure, if only for a few lingering minutes, if only to stick to their act. His face was also masked, his gaze falling on Minghao for the briefest of moments as he exited, breathing in lungfuls of clean air as soon as he was able.

As he walked back to their apartment, Minghao listened for the sound of approaching footfalls, or the briefest glimpse of a shadow in his peripheral.

It never came.

Minghao was left disgruntled, so unused to dealing with someone who was so blatantly strange, with his stupid lies and his weird way of doing things. Minghao could practically feel the mental headache settling, how could anyone be so frustratingly friendly with their enemy? Was it another terrible act of his?

Minghao didn’t get it, didn’t get the way Junhui smiled, didn’t understand how he could seem to be enjoying himself so.

And even if Minghao was searching for the truth, he realized that Junhui’s was one that he didn’t seem to want, and not for the reason he should.

As he walked back to their apartment, Minghao listened for his inner voice reminding him of his clear cut views, of how he derived himself of mercy when it was most needed, and how Junhui, in the end, was just another target-- a dead man walking. 

It never came. 

 

To ease his sense of boredom, and to give him some spending money (seeing as his assassination money went straight to rent and living expenses) Soonyoung worked part time at a local coffee shop, enjoying interacting with people outside of the Spades, and enjoying hearing the everyday gossip from elderly women that he insisted would be useful someday. 

To be perfectly honest, despite Soonyoung dealing with the wealthy quite often, he absolutely couldn’t fucking stand them. They were pretentious, entitled, and always so fickle about how he did his work. They wanted dramatic deaths, with wine stained carpets and blood spattered walls. Couldn’t Soonyoung just shoot them and leave with his own sense of finesse? Not only that, but the rich had rubbed him the wrong way, because even as a child, Soonyoung didn’t have much. 

What he lacked in finance he made up for in ambition, knowing fully well that his sense of justice could be called deranged. Soonyoung knew it, he didn’t shy away from what he did-- but he went where the money called for him. 

Soonyoung had never poured so much into anything as he had with the Spades. Their goals aligned, and hell, taking down an entire political empire was an accomplishment to be talked about for the next few decades, at least.

And with his thoughts drifting back to himself as a kid, dead parents, living in some elderly millionaire’s shitty orphanage--Soonyoung can’t help the fact that he doesn’t feel remorse for it. He can’t force the guilt of someone else’s actions on him-- after all, if someone wants to wipe you off the face of the Earth, there’s more often than not a reason for it.

Soonyoung knew that he was tainted, knew that life wasn’t his to take away. 

But in order to do something right for this world, Soonyoung was willing to become the ultimate wrong, just to balance it all out. 

And even if the subordinates of the mafia weren’t the biggest evil out there, Soonyoung didn’t lose sleep over them, either--because Santa couldn’t be Santa without his elves. 

The comparison may be strange, since Soonyoung wouldn’t consider either of the Chois to be jolly enough for Santa, but the conclusion was made easily enough upon seeing a short frame staring at him from across the counter, his face reddening by the second. 

“Hi there!” Soonyoung was positively beaming. “What can I get you today?” 

Lee Jihoon, was his name-- the marker had since faded, much to Soonyoung’s disappointment. He sputtered weakly, as if the very idea of Soonyoung’s existence was enough to offend Jihoon for the rest of his life.  
Which was fair enough, honestly. 

“Sir?” Soonyoung struggled to keep his unadulterated joy at bay. “If you’d like, I could offer you some suggestions! That way, a busy man such as yourself doesn’t have to worry about flies flying into his mouth,” 

Jihoon’s jaw snapped shut, his glare strong enough to kill Soonyoung where he stood. Thankfully enough, it seemed he knew better than to draw out a weapon that Soonyoung assumed he had and jump over the counter. 

Soonyoung was also thankful for the fact that it was a slower time of day, and there was no line behind the furious man standing before him, meaning that Soonyoung was in absolutely no rush whatsoever. 

“You look familiar,” Soonyoung tilted his head, a smirk growing on his lips as he feigned realization. “I know! I saw you on the news the other day! Jihoon, was it?” 

Jihoon managed to spit out his order, his livid state only worsening. “Medium black,” He gritted his teeth. 

Soonyoung glanced up and down his stature, “Are you sure you don’t want a small?” The last time Soonyoung held felt this much sheer amusement was when he had watched his artwork be projected on the big screen, showing Lee Jihoon in all his humiliating glory. 

“Medium.” Jihoon was clenching his fists, looking ready to start a brawl. That would be a shame, since he now knew where Soonyoung worked he’d have to resign anyway--but there were still a few sweet elders wandering about, and Soonyoung would hate to ruin their image of him. 

“Coming right up!” Soonyoung prepared the order sluggishly, deciding that his newfound barista skills could afford to go to waste if only to watch the sheer impatience on Jihoon’s face dwindle into a murderous glare. 

He slid it across the counter, batting his eyelashes innocently. “So,” He drawled, “What do you do for a living?” 

To be fair, Soonyoung should have expected the punch by now, it had really only been a test of pride and patience-- of which it seems that both had been severely damaged by Soonyoung himself. How unfortunate.

And despite the fact that he had been decked across the face, and the fact that Jihoon had grabbed his to go order and left without paying--Soonyoung couldn’t help but be so incredibly charmed by the fact that this man could turn so many shades of red in a matter of minutes. 

Soonyoung found himself examining his bruise in the mirror later on, surprisingly impressed. 

After all, he wouldn’t have expected such a tiny person to carry such anger in their limbs. 

 

There was a part of Seokmin, as inconsequential that he pretended it to be-- that squirmed under their informant’s scrutinizing gaze, they way he regarded them with a strange sense of perception, as if his gaze could see right through their motive without it having been revealed. 

The street was empty, save for the three figures standing just out of reach from the nearest streetlamp, Jeonghan having murmured something about the light being too risky. 

If Jeonghan noted the way Seokmin tensed, he chose not to acknowledge it. Instead, he opted for breaking the silence. “Did he see it?” 

Jisoo, or rather, ‘Joshua’, (per his request that they call him by a different name in case of straying ears) met Jeonghan’s unabashed eagerness with poorly contained scorn. “I made sure he saw the report, yes.” His arms were crossed, his voice soft, tone hardened. “As soon as he let us in, he saw it,” His brows furrowed as he spoke, features conflicted. 

Jeonghan hummed, a thin lipped smile on his face. Seokmin risked breaking his faked stoic, disinterested demeanor for a chance to read Jeonghan’s expression, something he doubted he would achieve, despite his repeated failed attempts. 

Joshua cleared his throat suddenly, his eyes flickering between them both before settling on Jeonghan. “Your goal, whatever it may be, is futile.” He shifted, stare unwavering. “By now I’m sure you’ve guessed that there will be retaliation,” His words held no bite, but there seemed to be the ghost of a question in his muttering.

Jeonghan arched a brow, leaning against the chipped wall behind them. “Oh?” The corners of his lips quirked upward, “And I’m assuming you want to know why we’re poking the bear, so to speak--yes?” 

Joshua’s gaze held a foreign sense of caution, his silence all the answer that Jeonghan needed as his eyes gleamed with an almost teasing kind of amusement. “Don’t put on an act. If you’re going to look for information, then ask what you really want to know,” Jeonghan watched the flicker of surprise that crossed Joshua’s face with interest.

Joshua stiffened, stilling as if he expected Jeonghan to act since he saw through his motives. What those motives were, Seokmin wasn’t sure--but he could never attest to being the mind behind their operation, anyway. 

“You’ve realized that we had other ways to get information from you, correct? We could have threatened you with Hansol’s life and then disposed of you both properly, because the loss of two of Cheollie’s golden boys would be far more insulting in this business,” Jeonghan snorted, “And yes, your task was pointless. He would have found out either way, whether he had seen the report or not, but his pride wouldn’t have suffered the same way,” 

Joshua’s eyes widened, his narrowed gaze piercing. “You have the information you need to take him down--the Spades single handedly apprehended all of us.” For the first time, Seokmin caught the faint spark of desperation in his voice as it trembled lightly, “Why haven’t you?” 

Seokmin felt the distant thrumming of blood rushing through his ears, feeling as if his heart was in his throat. Their ultimate goal made it worthwhile--the guilt of harming others, the pain of seeing the light leave someone as they fell to a heap on the ground, senseless and deprived. Their goal made it worthwhile. 

Jeonghan’s mocking words faded into something laced with vague sincerity, a glimpse of his most vulnerable persona--the one that Seokmin had come to know well. “We want more than what you’re thinking of,” He lifted his gaze, searching for something in Joshua’s cold expression. “You think too much along the lines of power, which is a constant in the mafia, I’m sure--but some things are worth more than that,” 

Joshua sniffed, choosing better than to argue with Jeonghan’s hinting and instead looking to Seokmin, as though he could sense his sudden change. Before he could make that conclusion, however--Jeonghan distracted him, his smirk lessening from a challenge and turning into something filled with mirth rather than mean spirited amusement. 

“While on the topic of questions,” He tilted his head to the side, “Why didn’t you call anyone in to kill us? It would have been easy. In fact, you could have even used this opportunity as a negotiation of your safety and loyalty to the mafia,” Jeonghan smiled, far too joyful for what he had implied. 

Seokmin had warned him about the possibility before their departure, siding with Wonwoo on the fact that an inside informant wasn’t necessary to begin with, a factor that only brought along risks and fretting. 

“Or were you just too curious to resist the idea of knowing more?” Jeonghan stepped forward, Seokmin going rigid next to him, worrying of the reaction of their unhappy company. 

Much to his surprise, the former remained unflinching. Jeonghan continued, straying from the over confident, intimidating demeanor he chose to execute so enthusiastically. “There’s a part of you that wants the death of the mafia, isn’t there? Otherwise, we wouldn’t still be standing here,” 

Seokmin truly detested the amount of sheer assurance that seemed to follow Jeonghan whenever he gambled with a decision of such magnitude, especially without conferring with others first. 

But judging by the way Joshua’s icy exterior seemed to be facing a saddened deterioration rather than an indignant sharpen, Seokmin wondered just how exactly Jeonghan managed to read and predict others so easily. 

“Seungcheol is my friend,” Joshua fisted through his hair, his hand falling limply to his side. “I don’t want him hurt. He doesn’t deserve this,” 

“If this continues,” Jeonghan gestured around them, the slightest hint of pain in his voice as he frowned, “Then how many more victims will suffer? The child labor, the sex trafficking, the drugs--” 

“I know,” Joshua interjected sullenly, suddenly unafraid of the consequences of giving away information so willingly. “But Seungcheol, he--” 

Joshua stopped himself, wringing his hands with nerves as his eyes scanned the surrounding areas for signs of life. His breathing evened, and composure regained, Joshua returned to his reserved state. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m keeping someone waiting.” Joshua gave them a reluctant once over, a slip of paper taken from his pocket and extended outwards, his stare suddenly refusing to meet Jeonghan’s frame. “Here. If this is all you needed, then I’ll be leaving.” There was no venom to his words, just the remnants of slight panic at almost revealing an evidently vital piece of information. 

Jeonghan gently took the folded parchment, a small silver chip taking it’s place as Joshua eyed the device skeptically, a flicker of doubt crossing his features at Jeonghan’s openly delicate manners. 

“Should you find that you’re out of places to hide,” Jeonghan pulled out the file containing the details Joshua had never wanted released, the details Jeonghan threatened him with merely days prior. “Press the red center. After all, you tread on rocky waters,” 

They were tucked into Joshua’s jacket easily, the man staring in bewilderment at Jeonghan’s smile. He murmured something in response, lacking in the bite it was most likely intended to have. “I can swim,”

Seokmin found that he and Jeonghan had both emitted a bark of laughter, and despite Seokmin’s confusion, he saw the shift in Joshua’s confliction and suddenly Seokmin began to understand what exactly Jeonghan was pursuing. 

He hid a smile behind his hand, because the others definitely weren’t going to be pleased. 

Joshua took a few steps back, an expression of forced neutrality hiding his utter befuddlement. “I won’t be seeing you again, you know.” It was difficult to decipher whether the words were positive or not, seeing as Joshua himself didn’t seem to be sure of their intent other than just voicing his thoughts into existence. 

Jeonghan smiled knowingly, seeming positively elated with the entire situation in a way that made Seokmin want to tease him for all the times that Jeonghan had reminded him not to wear his true colors when on missions. 

Still, Jeonghan watched Joshua’s departure with perplexing satisfaction. “Watch your back, Shua. You never know when the tides may change,” 

Despite the lightheartedness, Seokmin noted the slight clench of Jeonghan’s fist, the chewing of his bottom lip in thought as their former informant’s figure was obscured by darkness. 

Not even a moment had passed before Seokmin turned to him in utter exasperation. “Did you know that you were going to do that from the moment you learned about his situation, or do you just play genius to not get yelled at?” 

Jeonghan shrugged, amusement lining his eyes. “You’ll never know, will you? And in any case, we need him on our side. He lives the mafia everyday, but he obviously hates it. That’s an equation for a traitor if I’ve ever heard one,” 

Seokmin grinned and shook his head. “Or, maybe he’ll tell Seungcheol everything and our operation will fail,” 

Seokmin knew that in order for the revelation to occur, Joshua would have to include the entails about his multiple betrayals; and that he was inclined not to do so. Still, he knew the jest would push his friend’s buttons as an audible, dramatic sigh was emitted.

“They’re going to tell you to stop playing hero, you know. You can’t save every good person you come across,” The sentence was ironic coming from Seokmin himself, seeing as he only agreed to kill those who were directly tied with gruesome crimes-- but the words still fell from his lips easily. 

“Shua will save himself. I just had to push him a little-- and he’s not just worrying about himself, either. He’ll come back,” Jeonghan gave a decently reasonable explanation, and had a talent for making things fall into line with his ability of prediction. 

But Seokmin feared the day that he stand corrected for a mistake, that something would occur to set them back, to set someone over the edge.  
Jeonghan only took wagers when they were affordable, when they wouldn’t be able to have lasting detrimental effects. And even if Joshua wasn’t that someone, seeing as his reputation preceded him-- Seokmin could only hope the day would never come. 

Seokmin wouldn’t voice his thoughts on the matter aloud, at least, not yet--because the weight of the decision sat atop Jeonghan’s shoulders, and they sagged under it despite his smiley reassurances. 

And Seokmin knew, knew from the way Jeonghan chewed his bottom lip, the way he his gaze occasionally flitted to and from the ground as they trekked on, partaking in bland conversation as they made their way towards the apartment. 

Seokmin knew that the incident hadn’t been planned, and Jeonghan would suffer from the burdens of grasping for the threads of another vital role. After all, relying on Joshua to come back to them was ludicrous. Even someone as arguably trusting as Seokmin knew that much, at least.

Seokmin knew. 

But the right words never left him. 

 

Seungkwan never would have expected that this was the path he’d take. Sure, watching mafia movies on the big screen as a kid was a past time he’d indulge in with some of the other neighborhood children when he was younger--but now he was practically living one, a life led by illegal acts and placing wagers that could have him killed. 

Seungkwan didn’t enjoy thinking about the technicalities of it all, the realization that to many, they weren’t decent humans anymore. He and his friends-- they deserved whatever terrible fate that may happen upon them. 

And maybe those thoughts were justified, even if Seungkwan could never imagine his friends as dramaticized villains with no sense of morals, no sense of love-- there were plenty of others out there who could easily make that assumption. And it wasn’t that he faulted them for it; not really--Seungkwan just wished that the world was more even in it’s judgement. The Blackjacks were practically a terrorist organization, and yet they were wealthy and powerful beyond belief. Of course, the mafia’s violent ways had an impact--but so do those who enable them, those who allow the corrupt to buy their soul if only for a life of petty luxury. 

Seungkwan refused to get his hands dirty. He wouldn’t directly hurt anyone, no matter how important their goals were-- he couldn’t handle that kind of guilt; knowing that he had played God, tampered with human mortality. 

And because of this, when Jeonghan had questioned whether or not he’d be able to handle being a manipulative agent, well--Seungkwan had been told that he was charismatic, throwing himself into conversation came easily enough. 

After all, just how hard would it be to form a friendship with someone? Even if they were in such a horrid line of work, Seungkwan could feign interest. He could find something to like, whether it be how they spoke, how they looked--Seungkwan wanted nothing more than to give, give back to the world that had given him another chance after it had been taken away. 

But, there was something that certainly hadn’t been accounted for. The last thing that Seungkwan would have found himself doing was searching for undesirable traits, probing for flaws--because Hansol was nothing like the barbaric murderer Seungkwan had expected. Even as Chan had gone over the information they had gathered, saying that he had never seemed to dabble in anything too extreme; Seungkwan never would have believed himself genuinely wanting to spend time with him. 

Hansol wasn’t as easily fooled as Seungkwan had presumed. He was careful with his words, never revealing any information about the true nature of the organization he worked with--but he seemed to like Seungkwan easily enough, and their conversations flowed naturally. 

As far as Hansol knew, Seungkwan believed that he worked a night shift at a nearby casino. That had been one of the first things they had talked about, after Seungkwan had mistakenly stumbled into him in a decently busied coffee shop on a dreary, rain filled morning. 

Seungkwan hadn’t been entirely sure what to say when Hansol had inquired about his line of work--not because he hadn’t thought of one, but because the man’s relaxed, easy going mannerisms had left him completely unguarded. 

The idea of betrayal was one that Seungkwan wasn’t fond of, especially since he tended to fall on the sensitive side of the emotional spectrum-- and it only became harder as the weeks turned into months, and Seungkwan knew that Hansol was someone who he genuinely cared for. 

But in order to set things into motion, Seungkwan knew he would have to hurt him. Because in order to take down an empire, sacrifices must be made; and the falling of the Blackjacks was too important for Seungkwan to insist that he was unable to continue. After all, he owed his friends that much; at least.

Seungkwan had mentioned how much he wished that he could keep Hansol company while he worked, seeing as Hansol complained about the strange, creepy men that he usually had to converse with while he prepared drinks (a lie that strangely became too real, too real for their circumstances) and Hansol made an arrangement, because Seungkwan supposedly didn’t have enough ties to even manage to request an entry. 

Hansol left a basement window unlocked for him, purposely deterring their head of security from patrolling the area, insisting that he would help him with his work, lift some of the other man’s burden.

Hansol hadn’t been able to leave his position when Seungkwan had entered, true to his word-- accompanied by Wonwoo, Seokmin, Minghao and Jeonghan as bombs were placed on multiple floors without detection. 

A fire alarm was pulled as Jeonghan exited the final stairwell, Seungkwan having been keeping Hansol entertained as they hurried about. 

An indescribable feeling gnawed at his insides, depriving Seungkwan of any enjoyment, of any satisfaction that their schemes were finally being set into motion after so much planning, so much heartache. 

Hansol had been livelier than usual, all smiles and scrunched eyes as he laughed at Seungkwan’s crude whispers regarding figures that passed. When the alarm sounded, Seungkwan had purposely vanished into the crowd, because having to exit with Hansol and seeing his perplexed expression at the confusion, seeing the smallest glimmer of doubt cross his features--

It would have been unbearable. 

Hansol was in a dangerous, life threatening position. The Choi family had been humiliated upon the casino’s devastation, even more so after the reports came flying in. And Seungkwan knew that Hansol was intelligent enough to understand that he had been a direct cause, and that if the information should escape, that he would be shot on spot--because that was how justice was perceived among those who sell their soul for reputation and prowess. 

And Seungkwan knew that Hansol was intelligent enough to understand. 

When Jeonghan had requested if Seungkwan wanted to regain any vague closure by assisting him in the kidnapping of Hansol and his cousin--well, Seungkwan was afraid. Afraid of what it would all mean, knowing that everything had been a plot against them. 

But leaving Hansol wondering seemed like a worse alternative. Even if Hansol surely despised him, Seungkwan couldn’t fight the urge to be in his presence for a sorry excuse of a fair well. 

Upon their departure, Seungkwan whispered frenzied apologies, the dryness in his throat balancing the wetness he attempted to blink away from his eyes. Hansol hadn’t dignified Seungkwan with any response, he had just observed, an expression Seungkwan didn’t care to identify displayed on his face. 

And due to that relative coldness, Seungkwan hadn’t been expecting Hansol to be quite so level headed when he discovered Seungkwan’s not so subtle following, the man having taken several turns so as to steer them away from prying eyes before he halted suddenly. 

“I know you’re there.” Hansol turned to face him, ever expectant, no evident traces of lingering anger in his strained voice. 

Seungkwan was perfectly aware that this had to be some sort of violation, the fact that he had taken such a risk without having even consulted anyone--but the metal in his palm was cool, soothing. He was thankful for it, for the protection that he knew Hansol probably wouldn’t agree to take--even so, the idea of letting Hansol know that their bond hadn’t just been a farce was reason enough to try. 

Seungkwan stepped forward hesitantly, a sweaty, stumbling mess. “I, you-- you’re in a bad spot,” The words fell from his lips, clumsy.

“Yeah--I know,” Hansol eyed him, resolve wavering. “I didn’t think we’d talk again,” 

Seungkwan swallowed harshly under his stare, unsteady on his feet. “Here. I--if you’re in trouble, you’ll need this,” He outstretched his hand, still a safe distance away, knowing that being any closer would cross the invisible line they both set for themselves. 

“I don’t want it.” Hansol lowered his gaze, “And I don’t get why you’re here.” His murmur was quiet, but the effect was loud as Seungkwan fought the wave of emotions that threatened to drown him. 

Seungkwan released a shaky breath, fighting the tightening of his chest, reminding himself of Wonwoo’s scoldings, because ‘composure is everything’, after all. 

Upon meeting Hansol’s distrusting look, however--Seungkwan found that any training he had undergone left his mind in an instant. 

“You don’t--you don’t have to like me, or trust me, or--” His voice wavered as he took in Hansol’s somewhat unkempt appearance, sunken eyes from nights of restlessness. Seungkwan could feel a burning in his eyes as he broke the intensity of their stare, “I don’t expect anything from you, but-- but I don’t,” Seungkwan realized that his words were nothing short of rambles, of nonsense. 

But if he didn’t speak them now then they may never leave his closing throat, his trembling lips. 

“Take it. Please, you-- if you’re in danger, press the red.” Seungkwan placed the chip on the dirtied ground, too fearful that Hansol wouldn’t accept it from his own hands. He attempted to calm the beating of his aching heart, attempted to ease the shame of even presenting himself in front of his former friend. 

Seungkwan turned to make a hasty exit, wishing for nothing more than to curl up in his room and allow his relentless remorse to consume him in private.  
He had only taken a few measly steps before the voice reached his ears, dulled, quiet-- but a voice nonetheless. 

“Seungkwan,” Hansol murmured the ghost of a name, one that could have gone unheard if not for the unsettling hush between them. 

He didn’t dare face him, afraid of the emotions he may see. Instead, Seungkwan halted; holding his breath as he waited. 

“Don’t go to the Black Lotus. They’re expecting the Spades to show up,” The warning was comforting, even the idea that there might be a glimmer of comraderie still present between them was enough to ease the pain in Seungkwan’s chest, if only slightly. 

The mention of the annual party caused the corners of Seungkwan’s lips to turn upwards, bitter. 

They knew that they were to be expected; of course. It was the next phase of their plan-- infiltrate the notorious Blackjack party thrown for all of it’s affiliates to enjoy. Diving headfirst into enemy territory was a death wish, but one that they had agreed to take.

After all, what better way to learn information than to draw it directly from the source? 

Seungkwan knew better than to give an affirmative for their attendance, after all, it was clear where Hansol’s loyalty was placed. However, the notion of Seungkwan lying to Hansol once again after he had chosen to give him the warning that wasn’t deserved brought a sour taste to his tongue. 

“I’m sorry, you know.” Seungkwan couldn’t find the courage to voice his other thoughts, the ones that ranged from ‘I wish we could have met outside of this’ to ‘I wish you’d come with me’. 

He settled for the one that he knew wouldn’t patch their torn attachments-- it was too late for that, surely nothing could bring them together again. 

The words had hung heavily in the air ever since Seungkwan had been addressed directly, and his goal had been completed-- the only left for him to do was find the strength to leave.

Hansol met his apology with a sharp intake of air, as if it had broke through both of their unspoken wishes that neither could afford to voice aloud. 

As Seungkwan’s footsteps bounced and echoed through the space, two syllables met his ears that brought forth a flush of warmth through his system, a sudden clarity to his head.

They couldn’t be friends. Not anymore--but there was still a soft place in both of them that could never fully manage to resent the other. 

“Don’t die.” 

Seungkwan almost wanted to laugh, because the relief he felt was undeserved, and the irony of the fact that he had placed a target on Hansol’s back wasn’t unnoticed by either parties. 

Seungkwan didn’t know if Hansol took the device with him. He knew that he may never know for certain-- and that was alright. In the end, it felt that they had both parted with a sense of sadness, a sense of relief for one another. 

And now, as Seungkwan stood on the outside of where the Black Lotus was being held, mere days after his encounter-- he could feel nothing but a familiar comfort flowing through him.

Seungkwan smiled under his mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Feedback and criticism is always welcome, thank you for reading ^^


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The annual banquet usually brings a unanimous sense of unease, however, who could have thought that a single night could go awry in so many ways?
> 
> Alternatively, no one quite knows what to do with themselves and everyone hates parties.

Seungcheol had been fretting about the Black Lotus Banquet since his plan had been approved by his father after much scrutiny. Mingyu couldn’t place his entire confidence in their suggestions, either--after his humiliation, Seungcheol’s pride had taken a devastating hit, only fueled by his father’s urges to punish the perpetrators immediately; which was much easier said than done-- Mingyu was hesitant to believe that anyone with such clear cut planning skills would be foolish enough to dive head first into shark infested water. 

Still, the idea of a masquerade was sure to intrigue the Spades, what with their apparent love of dramatics; and with the invitation purposely extended to unimportant guests, the possibility of an interception was exceedingly high. 

Mingyu was adjusting his cuffs, straightening his posture before his presence was needed. Seungcheol’s words lay heavy on his mind, what with his worry of his father’s retribution being forced upon them if the Spades couldn’t be apprehended fast enough. A scapegoat, something to keep the news at bay, to exclaim that the Choi family wasn’t losing it’s ferocity in the slightest since the incident. 

The strings from the mask weren’t the most comfortable of accessories, but the mask itself was endearing enough to keep Mingyu’s discomfort at bay. A smoky black with bordered, grey swirls; nearly taking the shape of wings. It was intriguing, more so the fact that they had been specifically ordered not to match in their choices, so as not to be targeted as Seungcheol’s right hand men. Mingyu supposed that it made sense enough, but it would be sure to please the Spades, having them know that extra caution was being taken at their expense--and Mingyu hadn’t felt much reluctance to inform Seungcheol as such. 

He hadn’t garnered much of a disagreement, but Seungcheol seemed disgruntled with the ordeal nonetheless. He was going to be preoccupied nearly the entire evening with political pleasantries and obligations, anyway--and Mingyu didn’t want to worsen his souring mood. 

“Stop fidgeting. You look fine.” Jihoon announced himself rather curtly, pausing to examine himself in vanity as well. His own mask was similar in it’s design, but with blinding whites and warm, shining golden trim. Rather than their typical attire, Seungcheol had instructed them to follow the black and white ‘dress code’, in which every guest bore the colors of the Blackjacks despite not being informed to do so. 

“If they’re here, what will we do? We can’t draw too much attention, and wearing earpieces will make us the suspicious ones.” Mingyu followed Jihoon’s figure as he began to exit the space, leading them down a hallway reserved for those who were there by working circumstances rather than an extended invitation.

“Don’t engage. Tell Cheol and he’ll handle it, remember? They won’t be able to tell whose side we’re on if we start fighting,” Despite his attempt at neutrality, it was evident in the way Jihoon almost seemed to be reminding himself of the assumed consequences if they were too attempt a capture. His assertive nature was a factor on it’s own, but doubled with the price of an injured ego-- Jihoon was nearly unstoppable. 

They turned at an empty corridor, the sound of chatter and laughter already filtering through. Jihoon didn’t hesitate, even if he openly resented gatherings such as this, referring to all it’s attendants as ‘pretentious assholes who sell their souls to Cheol’s dad for a pathetic pat on the back’ and ‘idiots who will never stop vouching for political favor’. And, even if Mingyu himself wouldn’t personally choose those words for himself, the sentiment was certainly shared. 

The two passed through a roped off area, before emerging into the crowd of frilly dresses and boisterous laughter. Mingyu wished that he was positioned at Seungcheol’s side, if only to soothe his tension by having a friendly face near-- but their orders were to remain undercover for the time being, to gather information and report any suspicious behavior. And in any case, they couldn’t risk being targeted once again--another defeat would do a number on their half hearted attempts at a positive outlook. 

Before Mingyu could even mutter the beginnings of a sentence, Jihoon had vanished into the swarm of people downing champagne and talking animatedly to strangers in an oddly passive aggressive nature--leaving Mingyu to himself, for the time being. The others had entered at different time periods, due to Seungcheol’s overemphasized caution (appreciated, though not always completely needed), leaving Mingyu to eavesdrop on his own until he could somehow make out the likes of his friends through the throngs of drunken masses. 

And it wasn’t difficult, really, to converse with people--Mingyu found himself a frequent target of affection, even with the mask obscuring the top half of his features-- and learning about supposed family names and Blackjack connections was interesting, if only to keep an eye out for those who might seek to earn Mr.Choi’s favor rather than Seungcheol’s. 

And in his scan of the room, Mingyu’s eyes landed upon a taller frame standing on the outskirts of the crowd, swirling a glass in his hand lazily. His mask covered the left side of his face entirely, finely sculpted from a variety of colored metals and embroidered with jewels. The right side of his face was revealed below his eye, showing lips thinned with apathy.

Mingyu wasn’t sure that he had the capability of recognizing anyone in their current state; but if there was anyone in the room whose mere presence demanded to be recognized, it was his. And Mingyu wasn’t positive that approaching the man was the best course of action, what with his steely, intimidating demeanor--but he had yet to see any suspicious frames floating about, and even if this someone’s presence wasn’t a threat, knowing his ties to the Blackjacks would be helpful in determining possible future allies. 

Mingyu attempted to make the ordeal seem like a coincidence of sorts--perhaps he could pretend to falter in his steps, or feign being a newcomer and ask for directions. He decided against them, because this man leaned against one of the many looming pillars in a nearly disinterested way; and Mingyu quickly realized that pretending to be incompetent would only serve to sabotage his efforts. 

Instead, he decided on flattery--something about creeping along the lines of flirtatious interest seemed to lower anyone’s guard, regardless of interest or attraction altogether; and since the masks obscured one’s profile, it would be difficult to distinguish who you could afford to disrespect.

Mingyu walked with an air of confidence, knowing all too well that portraying your nerves was a deadly mistake in this particular field. If the stranger took any notice to his arrival he paid it no mind, the only acknowledgement being a slight tilt to his head. 

“You seem bored,” Mingyu drawled playfully, choosing to place himself a safe distance away, close enough to obligate a response, far enough to show a fair amount of consideration. “Does no one here pique your interest?”  
The stranger scoffed, choosing his champagne over sparing Mingyu any glances. “I don’t prefer company. I’m here on business obligations,” His voice was deep, tone reflecting an air of polite rejection. 

Mingyu noted that he was confident in his decline, no hesitation in his borderline insulting comment. Surely, he had to come from a well endowed family, one that shared close ties to the Blackjacks; because to come from a low family and insult the social aspect of the banquet itself was practically asking to be ostracized. 

Mingyu found that he, too, decided to diss the current bodies swaying in the room--if not to test the man’s reaction. “That makes two of us, then. But I must suggest that your preference might lead to disagreements throughout the night,” Mingyu smiled as he spoke, not entirely lying, searching for the man’s stance on what others of higher standing might feel about his wishes to remain unbothered. 

“And do you disagree?” The man shifted, turning to eye Mingyu for the first time behind his cold, glinting veil. His eyes were dark, sunken under glossy metallics. 

Mingyu felt the corners of his lips turn upwards. “Maybe. But I suppose that my opinions don’t interest you,” 

The man was relaxed, composed as he replied. “Not in the slightest. I have no particular interest in any guests. There is more to life than small talk and pointless inquiries,” The last bit of his sentence seemed tailored to Mingyu’s pestering, having been treading with perseverance.

Mingyu emitted a huff of genuine laughter, surprised at the man’s sharp honesty. It was relieving, hearing a guest that spoke of their true feelings and thoughts without ulterior motivations at hand--but the appreciation was one not shared among all parties present. If the stranger misspoke at the wrong moment, uttered the smallest intended offense, it was likely that he would meet a fatal end. 

And maybe that was what intrigued Mingyu the most, the sheer lack of caution despite the unspoken rules of dangerous, high society. Mingyu doubted that he was acting undercover, because his evident dismissal of any polite, sweetened lies was far too likely to drawn unwanted attention. 

Mingyu crossed his arms, his composure breaking as he gave way to sincere amusement. “You’re asking to offend someone, you know.” The words were lighthearted, their implications not so. 

“And did I offend you?” Mingyu wondered if he simply imagined the teasing lilt to the man’s voice, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. His apathetic stare appeared to sharpen, as if it were awoken, glittering under the gentle, softened light. 

Mingyu released a breath that he hadn’t been aware of, his shoulders slackening as his muscles released their rigidity. “No,” 

“Then I have nothing to worry about.” His smile turned into something tangible, defined enough for Mingyu to be positive that it wasn’t a trick of lighting, however small it may be, increasing at Mingyu’s apparent astoundment. 

“You don’t have any fear,” Mingyu giggled a bit, disbelieving. “I can’t tell if that makes you brave or stupid,” 

Mingyu could have allowed his mind to deceive him, but he thought the stranger might have succumbed to releasing the smallest huff of laughter. He faced Mingyu entirely now, choosing to disregard Mingyu’s question in place for one of his own. “Why should it matter to you? We don’t know each other,” 

Mingyu couldn’t refute that, but a strange thought flitted briefly through his mind, insisting that they could change that. He pushed it away, startled with himself. “Kim Mingyu,” The words slipped from his mouth without his consent, and he could feel himself flushing under the mask’s cool complexion. 

“Kim Mingyu,” His name was drawled lazily, the intent indecipherable. The stranger stepped forward, an invasion of space, sudden-- Mingyu could have stepped back, could have swerved. But he remained, eyes widening, pulse quickening. “You slip too easily, Mingyu. Catch yourself next time,” His whisper tickled Mingyu’s ear, sending a thrill down his spine. 

And then his figure disappeared into the ever changing mass, leaving Mingyu to regain his composure, blinking far too rapidly for his liking; wishing that the warmth in his chest would stop spreading, especially for a stranger who would forever remain an enigma.  
So much for remaining undercover. 

 

Jisoo had told him that his mask was eccentric, but Junhui paid it no mind seeing as Jisoo’s was also personally tailored. 

Bronze and golds molded together to resemble a fox’s head, the mask stopping just below Junhui’s nose, starkly contrasting with his darkened suit. 

The task of blending in wasn’t one that Junhui found particularly challenging, and with the threat of Spade infiltration, he found that snooping around in populated areas most likely wouldn’t do much good. After all, should they appear, they must have something to attain. 

He lingered in emptied corridors, poking his head lazily around abandoned corners, unable to find even a slight suspicious presence. 

“Junhui?” Jisoo called his name, confusion on his tongue. “What are you doing?” 

Junhui blinked at him, coy. “I could ask you the same thing. Then again, great minds think alike. Are you looking for them?” 

The flush creeping up Jisoo’s ears was more than enough to confirm Junhui’s inquiries. Why Jisoo seemed so reluctant to admit to his searching was another question altogether, one that Junhui would be hypocritical to pry for. 

“Well, we don’t need more than one nosy figure.” Junhui stretched idly, something akin to displeasure settling in his stomach. “And Mr.Choi is supposed to be speaking soon, yes?” 

Jisoo fidgeted in discomfort, and Junhui could practically see his brows furrowing under his cat like mask, the silvers glinting as he shuffled his feet. “Any minute now. You should head in there--I was told to wait here, specifically. It’d be better if you attended,” 

Junhui noted that Jisoo seemed to dread having a direct order. In fact, the request was strange altogether, seeing as Seungcheol’s father demanded his presence to be treated with the utmost respect--not attending his speech was an unforgivable act that would surely result in inhumane punishment.  
Junhui’s smile was tight, thin lipped as he hummed in acknowledgement. He was positive that Jisoo was worrying enough for the both of them, and he most likely didn’t want to hear any apologetic mutterings or pitying comments. Junhui brushed a hand on his shoulder, breezy, squeezing it gently as he passed. 

The audience had gathered, excited chatter filling the room. Junhui found that whether or not anyone truly anticipated his being here was irrelevant, because lying about one’s admiration and having it wholeheartedly for a man such as Mr.Choi were both equally disgusting. 

And as Junhui politely pushed through the bodies swarming near the podium, hoping that he could find a familiar frame among the crowd, one that might know more about Jisoo’s task-- he found his eyes landing on a different, yet surprisingly welcome figure. 

Thin, dawned in white-- his mask was plain, save for the splats of intricately placed colors, a rainbow of shades undeserving for such a dull event. 

And Junhui knew his position, his obligations and allegiance towards the Blackjacks, and how he had allowed The8 to leave unscathed once as a way of laying whatever brief infatuation he had attained to rest.

But whether or not Junhui would have chosen to attack him was decided by the current amount of people present, keeping him from making the slightest strike. Still, he found himself approaching, his lips curving upwards as he took his place beside him, shoulders brushing lightly. “You should cover your face more.” The8 turned his head, bristling at being addressed. 

“Then again, I could recognize your eyes anywhere,” Junhui smiled at the utter disbelief on the man’s face. He lowered his voice to a mere whisper, “I won’t make a scene, don’t worry. But, you should be more careful.” Junhui’s eyes fell down to the glass of wine that The8 clenched tightly, his knuckles whitening. “Wine. That makes sense--I should of thought of that,” 

“Shut up,” He hissed back between gritted teeth, trying in vain not to show his alarmed agitation with Junhui’s presence. “If you keep whispering when he shows up we’ll both be killed.” His eyes narrowed, “And as convenient as that may be for you, I have things I need to do,” 

“Me sacrificing myself to kill you isn’t part of my plan, don’t worry. I like myself too much for that.” Junhui searched for The8’s gaze, one that the man refused to return, glaring angrily at the podium in front of them. 

He snorted, “And I guess you’re going to tell me your plan, too.” The sarcasm dripping from his voice wasn’t nearly daunting enough to keep Junhui from enjoying their interactions immensely, only fueling him further, far too amused for his own good. 

“Right you are. I’m trying to kill you with my kindness and disarming good looks,” Junhui ran a teasing hand through his hair as he spoke.

“You’re wearing a mask.” The8 replied without a moment’s hesitation, unbothered and nonchalant as his stare fell upon a various assortment of objects, so long as he didn’t give Junhui the satisfaction of sparing him a glance. 

“And? That doesn’t mean it’s not working,” Junhui nearly allowed the giggle bubbling inside of him to spill over the incredulous look crossing The8’s features. 

“I can’t see your face,” He spoke as though he were reprimanding a child, though Junhui took the lack of aggression as an affirmative that perhaps The8 was not planning on stabbing him while the audience was distracted. 

“You could imagine it. I’m imagining yours--it looks good. It’d look better if you’d smile,” Junhui emitted a soft laugh as The8 whipped around to face him, scoffing.

He refuted Junhui’s masterful compliments by, once again, requesting his silence in a crude manner. 

Junhui didn’t have time to reply as the lights began to dim, and a strikingly familiar voice filled his ears. 

Seungcheol spoke confidently, his voice portraying pride as he introduced his father--even if Junhui knew he felt otherwise. Next to him, The8 stayed relaxed, the only sign of his distaste being the slightest twitch of his finger on his glass. 

And then, after being welcomed by deafening claps and cheers, he appeared--staying true to the theme, of course, bearing a steely mask resembling that of a plague doctor, most likely being chosen to be unsettling.  
His voice was gruff, collected and lacking in mercy. 

It was the only voice that could make Junhui lose his composure, his air of confidence. It sent chills across his skin, made his stare blank. 

He could feel The8 peering at him curiously, risking a small mutter under the room’s darkened lights. “You don’t seem fond of him,” 

Junhui released a bitter huff of laughter, unable to tear his eyes away from the stage before them. “No one is, believe me.” He could feel his will hardening as his eyes fell upon a man bound and gagged, sitting helplessly at his feet. “You should close your eyes soon,”

Before The8 could question his words, Mr.Choi began speaking once again, having already gone over basic welcomes--Junhui found himself settling for deciphering Seungcheol neutral expression, standing just out of the spotlight behind his father. 

He always hated this part the most. They all did--none of them were unaware of the senseless killings of the mafia, and it wasn’t as if their targets were always completely innocent, either. 

But even if Junhui had killed without hesitation, he never did so for his own pleasure. 

“Firstly, I would like to thank you all for your attendance. I find that our family grows stronger with every passing year.” His warm words weren’t properly met with his dulled, expressionless tone. Junhui had never heard anything so devoid of life in all his years. 

“And as we grow, so do our enemies. I’m sure news of recent events have spread--but worry not, because even in the face of trials, we prevail.” Wordlessly, he held out a handgun, gesturing for Seungcheol to take it. 

And, as he had in years prior, he took it without reluctance; his steps refusing to falter even as the man’s muffled screams increased in their desperation. 

A gunshot rang throughout the room, clear and silencing. Junhui registered the sound of a body falling, hearing the scuffling of shoes as Mr.Choi’s puppets hurriedly ushered the body away. 

The8 inhaled sharply, the only hint of his sudden tense demeanor.

“We make examples of those who are weak. Those who rise against us are always held responsible.” Mr.Choi waved away the lingering smoke, scanning the crowd as he spoke. 

Slowly, he turned to face Seungcheol, who watched him beneath his mask, careful not to slip. Careful not to falter. 

“My son. You had thought that your closest men were your allies, but I am afraid that we were both mistaken.” And with every spoken word, every syllable cruelly pronounced, Junhui could feel his pulse beginning to quicken, his nerves beginning to betray him.

Junhui wasn’t a man of weak resolve, and violent acts never threatened to phase him. 

And yet, that didn’t stop the sudden churn of his stomach, the sudden rush of adrenaline running through his veins. 

Two kneeling figures were kicked forward, faces bare, gazes directed towards the floor so not as to reveal their terror. 

Junhui moved to dart forward, to distract, to do something, anything-- but a firm grasp on wrist kept him rooted to his spot. 

“Don’t.” The8’s tremoring plead met his ears, “I know who's standing behind them. They have a plan--you’ll ruin it,” 

Junhui forced his heartbeat to still, forced the burn in his throat to be swallowed down. 

“Hong Jisoo and Chwe Hansol. I’m afraid we have rats in our midst,” Mr.Choi placed the handgun all too delicately into Seungcheol’s grasp, who was surely panicking beneath his mask, beneath his icy demeanor. 

“Father,” Junhui could hear his act breaking, a glimpse of emotion in his increasingly shaky tone. “I believe that you’re sorely mistaken.” 

It was an act of humiliation, a way to force Seungcheol into being an empty headed toy, a way to punish him for his father’s embarrassment at losing his prized property just weeks prior. 

And Seungcheol knew this, knew that it was designed to make him seem like a naive, spoilt child-- he had to. But he persisted, “I can assure you--” 

“Let us not dally. We are keeping our guests waiting, after all.” Mr.Choi’s words were met with the giggles of a delighted audience, elated with the fact that the sorry, soon to be dead men on stage weren’t them. 

Seungcheol aimed his gun in their direction, unwilling to settle on one alone, unwilling to get any closer. Even from a distance, Junhui could see the tremble to his fingers. 

“Seungcheol, don’t tell me you can’t be an adult?” His voice was taunting, a smile creeping vaguely on his twisted features. 

Before anyone could release their held breath, enraptured with the family drama unfolding before their very eyes, an opportunity for exposure, for political gain-- The man standing behind Jisoo dropped something onto the stage, resulting in an explosion of fog.

The man who accompanied him tossed another bomb into the crowd, yells of confusion beginning to increase the room’s chaos. 

More smoke screens appeared suddenly throughout the crowd, The8 slamming one to the floor in a flurry of limbs. Junhui resisted the urge to go towards the stage, knowing fully well that there had been a drastic change in plans. 

The8 grabbed his arm, tugging Junhui along as they shoved through the crowd. “I have no idea why we’re taking you with us, but I can only assume that’s what Jeonghan wants since he’s with your friends. Stay close,” 

Junhui followed him, choosing to annoy his company even in the worst of moments. “And your goal?” 

The8 didn’t waver as he replied, his speed only increasing as they made a beeline for one of gleaming glass windows. “Just got more complicated,” He panted, refusing to stop even as the pane drew closer. “Don’t panic, follow my lead,” 

Junhui followed him even as he smashed through the window, sending glass shards flying, the sides of his face scraped, his suit tattered. They plummeted down as Junhui vaguely heard the crashing of others following in their lead, some seemingly more fearful as they yelled. 

Junhui was enveloped by a sudden chill as he was engulfed by the decorative lake that sat idly next to the building, remembering how much Jisoo had complained about their budget at it’s expenses. 

His limbs were sore from the impact, his eyesight beginning to grow blurred at the edges. 

Perhaps he should’ve aimed for a better landing, one that didn’t place his head at risk-- even so, he could feel his lungs aching, screaming for air. 

And maybe Junhui would’ve complied, if not for the firm grip that pulled him upwards, breaking the water’s surface, still tugging him along as confused yells and gunshots were heard overhead.

Junhui made out those familiar eyes, ones that looked down at him with poorly hidden, vague traces of concern as the ruckus increased. He was mouthing something, his tone urgent--Junhui couldn’t make out the words. 

He must have said something that The8 didn’t like, because he frowned at him, glaring reproachfully. 

Junhui could feel himself grinning--it was the last thing he felt before the fuzz in his head became too much to overcome, and his incoherent senses grew louder than the shouts and heavy footsteps. 

 

It was a tricky, dishonest situation brimming with deceit and shame. In his defense, however--Jisoo had never imagined himself becoming so close with the heir of the mafia, especially not taking him being beyond a decent person into consideration. 

Hong Jisoo was a pathetic, dirt ridden, bruised kid working in an underground mafia run factory with no wage, but rather, earning his living in a non figurative manner. He didn’t remember much about his childhood, having been born out of a drug den and shipped away for profit, with no records to vouch for his existence. Aside from blurry memories of a cousin that had been sent off to New York, and foggy images of his mother, Jisoo’s childhood was one that had gaping holes and unfulfilled questions. 

Snot nosed and miserable, when Jisoo saw the fancy men with her shiny hand guns and clean clothes, he knew that was willing to do absolutely anything to gain their favor when they checked in to see how their products were being manufactured. And maybe that was their ploy, to expose the children who never truly stood a chance to begin with, after all--what better way to find agents than those who can’t be tracked?

And there he was, at the tender age of fourteen living in the underground of Los Angeles doing illegal work for a shady organization living on the other side of the world, rising in ranks, preening for recognition--anything to escape the grimy, overcrowded nightmare that was his previous home. 

They didn’t scare him off with tasks of murder or bloodied hands. They lured him in, exploiting the desperation of a poor teen deprived of any chances. Small things, ‘steal this from them’, ‘get this to us’. And Jisoo knew now that he had harmed many in indirect ways, things that only seemed inconsequential at the time. 

And at eighteen, Hong Jisoo was escorted to heart of Seoul to meet the man whose influence he had been working under for so long. Mr.Choi of the Blackjacks, assigning him to infiltrate his son’s inner circle and sabotage his workings that interfered with his father’s wishes. 

In Jisoo’s eyes, they were all monsters. After all, he had witnessed their inhumanity first hand, had felt their cruelty directed as they tugged at the strings that controlled him. Nonetheless, this was what he had worked tirelessly for--for a kid such as himself, there was no better way.

There could have been, Jisoo knew. But all it had taken was a glimpse into the wealth, the sheer confidence those field agents possessed and thoughts of running away left his mind with a single blink. 

He worked finances, covering up illegal transactions, meeting with victims, forced to provide threats under polite questions and half hearted advice. 

Once Jisoo was close enough to Seungcheol, he was swapped for a different position, working against only those who were the wrongdoers themselves. And yet, as Seungcheol trusted him to schedule, to plan, to monitor--he could have no idea of the information reported back to his father, to the man that rooted for his failures. 

Jisoo had been snooping through files when he happened upon a brief document of sorts, stuffed away in a file cabinet containing minimum information about underage employees who were subjected to ghastly conditions, commonly the children of those who came from sex trafficking and prostitution rings. It hadn’t been an incredibly pressing task, finding his date of birth, the record of his life contained within small printings.

Jisoo found his thoughts drifting back to a face younger than his, one that was entirely welcomed before everything went to hell for them both. 

Finding Hansol’s identity had taken more digging, more probing than Jisoo would have liked. He confessed his actions to Seungcheol, who had stumbled in upon Jisoo’s clumsy searchings. 

At the time, they had become close enough to where Jisoo’s shame had begun to swallow him--but what he thought was unbearable proved to get worse when Seungcheol initiated investigations over a course of several months searching for Chwe Hansol. 

When he was found, he was brought to South Korea immediately, having been living in different low paid, rusting factories. Their reunion had been a happy one, and Jisoo knew of the dangers that came with bringing Hansol into a world of crime and betrayal--but he could have never allowed himself to live on comfortably knowing that he was suffering out there, suffering when there was something he could do. 

And Jisoo’s small acts of rebellion against Seungcheol’s father increased, becoming embellished funds, small, costly inconsistencies in his records, small slips of cash to those who were willing to take a life for money. 

Those who were willing to take terrible lives, terrible lives that did horrendous things under the name of the Blackjacks. 

And Jisoo knew that he had put himself in a situation that, if found, would result in nothing but a tortuous, painful death. But it was well deserved, with the crimes he had committed against his morals, against his friends. 

Having been confronted of his misdeeds by a cunning Yoon Jeonghan, Jisoo found his circumstances utterly inescapable--that is, until his underlying intentions had been exposed, and Jeonghan allowed him to leave unscathed. 

It was a funny thing, really, how despite being given so many chances, taking so many opportunities, Jisoo still found himself staring at death so often. 

Junhui had provided him with reassurance, because in his eyes, there was nothing that Jisoo could have done to warrant death. Perhaps some of Mr.Choi’s men wished to talk business, to discuss yearly budgets. 

Jisoo knew better than to be so hopeful; it seemed as if his luck had finally run out, and his treason had been discovered. He could have fled, continued life as a man on the run--but found that he had been running his entire life, and that the mafia’s influences fell farther than he could ever escape on two legs alone. 

His death would hurt his friends--as would news of his actions. Regardless, they would live fine without him, comfortable, the closest to happy that anyone like them could manage to grasp.  
And Hansol would grow up without his looming, overprotective cousin. But if it meant that Hansol’s heart could keep beating, than it was something Jisoo wasn’t willing to worry over. 

The small gadget that Jeonghan had gifted him practically burned holes into his front pocket, and Jisoo knew all too well that the Spades would never pass up an event like this, despite the masquerade theme having been a trap from the beginning. Still, there was no more running.

It all had to end eventually. 

Jisoo’s mask was clutched with loose fingers, his arms dangling by his side as two of Mr.Choi’s men approached him briskly, wearing snarls and smirks of grim satisfaction. 

They halted in front of him, and Jisoo found bile rising in his throat as his nerves worsened with every painful exhale, with every stomach churning second of eye contact he managed between them both.

“Hong Jisoo. It’s been discovered that your loyalty to the Blackjacks was tainted,” The man spat, his eyes glinting. “I’m not surprised. Worthless street scum always end up killed,” 

Next to him, a man of steely disinterest eyed him steadily. Jisoo managed to muster a reply, his voice not quite portraying the dread constricting his chest. “Yes, well, I stayed loyal to the Blackjacks as far as I know. Tell me, is Choi Seungcheol not next in line?” 

He was shoved against the wall roughly, his head slamming back as hands tightly gripped his throat, causing him to lurch and gasp for air. 

“Keep your mouth shut. That kid’s going to end up with a bullet in his head just like you. You couldn’t even follow simple fucking directions, and now look at you,” The balded, disgustingly pleased man spat as he spoke, enjoying the kick of Jisoo’s feet as he fought for oxygen. 

Warm tears burned his eyes, dots taking up his vision as the world began to spin. He was dropped suddenly, leaving Jisoo to hack and choke as he inhaled shaky, uneven lungfuls of air. 

The calmer, younger man seemed unbothered with his partner’s delight. It was a common occurrence, being beaten and tormented before an execution. After all, there were no consequences for the torturing of a dead man still standing. 

Jisoo knew that his stature wasn’t enough to give him any leverage in a fight against them both, and defending himself would only provoke the men further, give them more incentive to leave him with fractures and bloodied limbs. 

He knew this, but Jisoo couldn’t stand for the amount of falsely placed arrogance and admiration the men had for Seungcheol’s father. It was silly--he was minutes away from death (hopefully done by Mr.Choi’s hands rather than a more devastating alternative), and yet, he found that the least he could do was defend Seungcheol against senseless, depraved lunatics with nothing but violence to live for. 

He informed the men as such in between hacks and weak, shaky words that only added to the wetness of his reddened face. 

A kick was swiftly delivered to his stomach, leaving Jisoo breathless as he doubled over in pain, convulsing. 

He prepared himself for another, sure that the men looming over him were planning on enjoying their limited time with him with utmost enthusiasm. 

Quick, heavy steps drew Jisoo out of his sunken thoughts as the man above emitted a grunt, having been struck from behind, the sound of something breaking and clattering to the floor enough to force Jisoo’s eyes away from the ground.

And above him stood Hansol, wielding a corner table, having just assaulted the man who inflicted Jisoo’s injuries, forcing him backwards as he hissed in pain, blood dripping from a wound to his head as one of the table legs splintered off onto the marbled flooring. 

Dread engulfed Jisoo entirely, leaving him with more terror than when he had realized that his last moments were upon him. “No, no, Hansol--” He protested weakly, standing, pulling his beloved cousin and friend back. 

“Hansol, they’re going to-- no, you can’t--” Jisoo was reduced to a pale, stuttering mess as both of the men recovered from their shock, eyeing Hansol hungrily. 

“I couldn’t find you. You told me to meet you by the fountain during the speech,” Hansol turned to him, his features filled with grief rather than the despair of having thrown himself into what would surely result in his demise. “I couldn’t leave you. Not when you needed me,” His voice wavered, his unsteady gaze flitting between the men, who shared wolfish grins and sharpened blades. 

Jisoo fought back the urge to scream, because it was far too late for that. Hansol had interfered, and the price to pay was too much.  
Far too much. 

As the men neared, Jisoo felt his wobbly fingers frantically searching for his front pocket, drawing out a small silver device with a red center, quick enough to press it despite his teetering, unbalanced stance. 

Hansol looked at him with wide eyes, quickly shoving what remained of the dainty table into his chest, pushing him back from the unexpected impact, leaving himself unguarded as the cold, emotionless monster of a human tugged Hansol back, slamming a fist into the side of his cheek, paying no mind to the small bit of metal that fell to ground shortly thereafter, the middle glowing an ugly scarlet.

Jisoo stumbled forward, an undefined noise of alarm leaving his parted lips as he rushed to protect Hansol, who didn’t deserve any of it, who simply couldn’t be hurt, not when everything was his fault.

It was all his fault.

A sadistic grin evident on his features, the older, more enthused of the men swung his pocketed blade with force, leaving Jisoo’s suit with multiple tears, gashes littering his face unprotected by layers of fabric. 

Jisoo wasn’t thinking of any sort of consequence as he swung what remained of a splintered leg into the man’s chest, jerking it out almost immediately after, blood spraying onto the floor as the man released a howl of pain. The wound was enough to slow his movements as Jisoo stepped out of his path, his eyes falling upon the man who had Hansol cornered, helpless as he was teased with a knife tracing the line of his neck. 

Jisoo wasn’t thinking when he felt the stool ram into the back of the man’s skull, repeatedly, crimson warming his hands as the burly frame toppled backwards, slamming forcefully onto the flooring, his blood seeping out through incurable wounds steadily. 

Hansol froze, his eyes widened, unseeing as they scanned Jisoo, his hands held out in what was supposed to be a calming manner--but Jisoo stepped backwards, his head reeling.

There was a corpse in front of them, a corpse murdered by his own hands. Jisoo stared at his fingers, coated and stained with unsightly gore, tears flowing from his eyes as he panted. 

There was some kind of noise behind him, some kind of heavy fall--but Jisoo couldn’t process it, what with the panic he felt clogging his judgement. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the red draining from the man’s skull. His hands tugged at his hair, entangled in his locks as he pulled mindlessly, falling to his knees. 

There was a figure in front of him, words being softly spoken. But Jisoo couldn’t hear over the rushing of blood in his ears, he had murdered, he was a killer, a monstrous, horrible--

Jisoo’s hands were pried away from his face, firm--he attempted to recoil, to pry his limbs away, hoping that it would all be over and that he would just be killed already. 

Gentle, feather light touches drew him from his disorientation, Jisoo’s eyes finally fluttering open to reveal a familiar, tender smile-- a presence that stroked the cuts along his face with comforting murmurs, his other hand gripping Jisoo’s wrist sternly. 

“Shua.” It was the ghost of a name, falling quietly from parted lips. His hand traced circles along Jisoo’s face, along his bloodied wrist. “I need you to stay with me. Hansol is okay, he’s here. Everything is okay,” 

Jisoo shook his head, a numb, dulled feeling overtaking him. “No. I killed him, Jeonghan. He’s dead, and it’s my fault--” 

“He deserved it. He’s killed more people than either of us could even count,” Jeonghan cupped his face, fingers straying to draw imaginary patterns into Jisoo’s skin. 

Jisoo found himself leaning into the touch, breaths shaky, his fingers unable to stop their tremors. “You don’t know that,” He whispered. “I’m just as bad--”

“You’re not.” Jeonghan’s fingers halted, tilting Jisoo’s head to meet his stare, devoid of judgement, devoid of disgust. “You’re nothing like them, Shua.” 

For the first time, Jisoo’s eyes fell upon Jeonghan’s fingers, the tips smeared with blood. He murmured, “See? I did a bad thing, too.” He paused, “I killed, too.” Their stare never broke, his caring demeanor much different from the menacing, cunning one that Jeonghan so willingly flaunted. “You have to do bad things to help good people. That’s why,” 

Jeonghan addressed a figure standing behind them, raising his voice only slightly. “Soonyoung. Tell everyone that we’re taking our targets with us--don’t give me that look.” His eyes flickered to Jisoo as he added, “I know that these two won’t leave without them,” 

Jeonghan helped him up with small mutters of encouragement, blocking his view from the man with the shattered skull laying a few, measly feet away. Jisoo was able to give him a coherent summary of events, making a small note that he would owe Hansol a lengthy explanation later. 

Jisoo found his eyes trailing over to where Hansol watched with concern, doing his best not to stare, talking lowly with another presence who offered quiet reassurances. He realized with a small sigh that it was the second of their previous kidnappers, and perhaps the whispers Jisoo overheard weren’t as imaginary as he thought. 

And perhaps, judging by the second device laying abandoned on the dirtied tile--he wasn’t the only one who had developed a begrudging lack of dislike for the Spades. 

Jeonghan’s presence lingered, and the sheer amount of relief it brought was surely not as unwelcome as it should have been.

“Follow our lead. It’ll be fine, Shua.” Jeonghan released him after his thumb brushed along the lines of one his more serious facial wounds, Jisoo wincing as he wiped away the last of the stubborn blood. 

Jisoo was a man who had been given far too many chances.

But as it seemed, his luck hadn’t run out quite yet. 

 

For someone who was so used to keeping himself reigned in during stressful situations, Jihoon felt himself slipping. It was hopeless, the task of Seungcheol murdering two of their closest friends was a nightmare none of them could have prepared for. And in the end, it didn’t matter whether or not he was able to--Hansol and Jisoo were going to end up lifeless, a setup to indirectly punish Seungcheol for the destruction of the casino weeks prior. 

And maybe Mr.Choi was getting bolder, more careless--because Jihoon found that he couldn’t recollect any actions that would call for the public execution of either party present, and yet there they sat.

Jihoon couldn’t read their expressions. He couldn’t bare to look at the sight before him, frozen, terror seizing hold of his thoughts completely. 

He wondered if their plan had worked, if the Spades were truly present for this monstrosity, if they would bask in the fact that they had two less problems on their hands, two less factors to think about as they would continue working towards the Blackjack’s destruction. 

Jihoon, as he watched Seungcheol fighting the reality of the situation with stiffened, devastated movements; decided that maybe the falling of an empire wouldn’t be something so hard to accept if not for what it entailed. 

Lee Jihoon was the by product of the men he had chosen to surround himself with, irritable and touchy if only by defense and willpower alone. 

He could have let them know he cared more, could have told them that their existence meant something; that sometimes there was good in bad and by God, compared to everyone else acting under gang influence they were practically saints. 

Jihoon swallowed harshly, his eyes dampening as he bit harshly on his lower lip, refusing to give anyone the satisfaction of his grief being put on display for the cowards that surrounded him to see.

It was too late. Jihoon waited for the deafening, world changing bullets that would surely fire; waited for Seungcheol’s labored, jagged movements to be replaced by his father’s brutality as he was reprimanded for being weak, his failure as an heir being shown to every coward that leeched off the mafia’s familial workings, mutts thirsty for even a drop of vulnerability that would allow them to ascend the hierarchy. 

Jihoon waited, heart stilling, chest numbing-- 

It didn't come.

It was sudden, causing shouts of confusion and frenzied yells to tumble out of every pair of lips stained with liquor and poorly contained glee. Smoke was filling the room-- Jihoon jerked, having been in a trance of sheer dissociation, longing to be anywhere but in the shimmering room in which he stood. 

There was the shattering of glass and the yells turned into shrieks, mafia members tossing themselves down a flurry of staircases if only to chase after those who had smashed through the glistening window panes. Jihoon was in a state of disorient, unsure of what to make of himself, his mask having been knocked to the floor with the amount of bodies fleeing for the stairwell. 

Jihoon wasn’t moving, he was simply pressing himself against the wall; because the entire scene unfolding before him was one that he couldn’t comprehend in the aftermath of his shock. His eyes searched the room for his friends, unable to find anyone in the screaming mess of limbs. 

He vaguely wondered who had been foolish enough to throw themselves out of the building. Jihoon registered there being a lake welcoming their fall, but the entire ordeal seemed unreal to him as he blindly stumbled, fighting against the direction most were travelling as he eagerly attempted to trudge towards the stage. 

Jihoon was perfectly aware that he was marching towards a surely enraged mafia boss, but he was also perfectly aware that the podium was the last place he had seen anyone close to him; and Jihoon wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. 

Jihoon’s elbow was tugged backwards suddenly, and he hissed in response to the unexpected force, stumbling into something solid that stood behind him. He whipped around, angry and distressed--only to meet a pair of determined eyes that glinted with irking familiarity beneath the intricacies of his mask. 

“You!” Jihoon reared backwards, his volume increasing involuntarily. “Who the fuck do you think you are? How stupid do you have to be to come here--”  
The man in charge of his previous shame stood before him, any signs of gloating or pride absent in place of obvious tension. “I know, I get it! But I need you to follow--” 

“Like hell I’m going to follow you,” Jihoon snarled as he swatted Hoshi’s hand away, glaring at him as his poorly handled worry overwhelmed him as he realized that only Seungcheol’s father occupied the stage. 

Hoshi peered around them, quick and swift footed as he swiveled around Jihoon to block his escape. “Your friends are fine, they’re with my--leader? Yeah, leader--” 

Jihoon attempted to shove by him, his narrowed eyes not catching the way Mr.Choi’s enraged glare skimmed over their fighting frames, his eyes widening in recognition of the smaller man’s temperament and his signature, somewhat small frame.

“Fuck you. Fuck you and your stupid, shitty leader! Get out of my way,” Jihoon spat at him roughly, attempting to hide his blotchy, tear stained cheeks. 

“They jumped out of the window! How did you miss that--” 

“I didn’t miss anything, you dumb bitch! I’m not an idiot, now leave me the hell alone. I’m not playing nice with the guy who kidnapped me,” Jihoon’s grief and agitation with everyone and everything spilled over as his frustrated retorts turned into a loud burst of yelling, just wishing that he had any idea where any of his comrades were, and questioning why exactly they left him behind. 

And then a hand clamped itself on his shoulder as he was forced backwards with an arm snaking around his throat. In front of him, Hoshi surged forwards--only to emit a strangled groan as he collapsed, the barbs that remained from being tased yanked from his back mercilessly from the presence behind him. 

“Where is he?” Jihoon could hear his chilling, enraged voice before he saw him circle around to meet his peripheral vision, Jihoon clawing useless at the arms that restricted him. 

Seungcheol’s father was maskless, his bare face contorted with fury. “Where did he go? You’re his head of security, aren’t you?” He laughed, his eyes scanning Jihoon’s frame as a mocking smirk played at his lips. “Pathetic.” He leaned forward, harshly pulling Jihoon’s face forwards as his breath, hot and violating-- covered his skin. “Tell me and I might spare you at least a few of your fingers,” 

And instead of denying having any recollection of Seungcheol’s current whereabouts, seeing as his location was something that Jihoon had just been attempting to discover in moments prior; he decided to take the opportunity to say a few well deserved words that always been on the tip on his tongue, since he most likely was going to be dismembered or brutally killed no matter what he chose to do. 

“Hell no. Eat shit,” The words fell clumsily, but they had their desired effect as a fist was slammed promptly into the bridge of his nose, blood surging forth, the bone broken from impact.

In front of Jihoon’s current constriction, Hoshi’s profile was revealed as one of Mr.Choi’s men ripped the mask from his face, turning to him with a wolfish expression. “Sir, it’s him.” 

Unlike Jihoon, who accepted his fate with ease, Hoshi fought against the men, biting his hand to the point of drawing blood--an act that earned him a kick to the stomach and another round of being tased. His body jerked and he cursed loudly--reminding Jihoon of a frenzied, panicked animal in the jaws of a lion.

He was afraid. 

Mr.Choi’s anger seemed to subside if only slightly, an unnaturally wide smile in place of his gritted teeth. “Kwon Soonyoung.” His brass knuckles were forcefully aimed for Soonyoung’s face, a stream of blood flying out at the gruesomely inescapable impact--leaving him with a bloodied nose bridge resembling Jihoon’s own. 

“I knew you couldn’t hide forever. It’s a shame, you know-- you could have done well for yourself,” Mr.Choi’s onslaught of attacks continued, Soonyoung’s pained groans becoming more pronounced, his defiant stare never faltering. 

Much to Jihoon surprise, when given a brief moment to collect himself--it seemed Soonyoung was only able to murmur a slur of words as blood dribbled onto his chin. 

“Eat--eat shit,” Blood sprayed from his mouth as Soonyoung hissed, speaking as if his mouth was stuffed with cotton.  
Jihoon’s face was searing, and he knew it was only going to worsen as he was stuffed in the back of a dreaded van, crimson stains ever present around them both as Soonyoung was shoved next to him as the door was slammed shut. 

Jihoon expected him to make a crude comment, to push his blame onto Jihoon for getting both of them in a situation that would only end when their lives were beaten out of their mangled bodies. 

And much like a lot of things that night, it never came. The only sound between them was an exchange of labored breathing and the acceptance of the agony that would follow. 

Jihoon waited for his own blame to shine through, his piercing, dagger like thoughts that would portray Soonyoung as a moronic, sorry excuse of a person whose unwanted persistence was the direct cause of their misery. 

Jihoon sighed--they never came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all that I have written so far (also character death isn't tagged for a reason ;) ) Thank you for reading! Critiques are highly appreciated


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight conversations and roaming thoughts.

Chan, having not been allowed in the actual building--had been reduced to a getaway driver, the van protected by bulletproof glass and tinted windows. Of course, he hadn’t been prepared to see his bloodied comrades being accompanied by their enemies as they hastily climbed into the vehicle, many having to sit on the floor, most without seatbelts and very, very uncomfortable. 

Chan knew better than to take them to where they were staying even without Jeonghan’s instructions, and instead opted for an abandoned warehouse where they kept a majority of their supplies instead. Escaping the mafia was difficult, but they had followed after their dramatic escape on foot, giving them a disadvantage--after all, the men would never have time to find their own respective cars before they were out of sight.

And no matter how many shots they fired, attempting to aim for the tires that sped away hastily-- they wouldn’t hit, due to Chan’s arguably reckless swerving and Wonwoo’s defense as he leaned out of the window nearest to him, shooting the increasingly small figures without flinching as they fled. 

It had been nearly an hour since they arrived at the warehouse, and bitter remarks and heated arguments still had yet to cease. 

Seungcheol was a mess, tousled hair, still unrecovered from nearly having to kill two of his closest companions. He was steely, making only small comments as he struggled to regain himself.

Jisoo had pulled him aside and given him the best explanation he could muster, tearful and brimming with shame--giving Seungcheol another matter to fret over, another factor to consider as he leaned against a splintered wooden crate, isolated, if not for Kim Mingyu, who remained by his side while gnawing the inside of his cheeks. 

“Why would we bring them with us?” Chan spoke with poorly contained agitation, not caring if the other party heard. “We’ve jeopardized everything. What about everything we’ve worked for?” 

“You aren’t the only ones who have worked to get where you are.” Mingyu’s state only seemed to worsen as he continued shakily, “Because of you, Jisoo and Hansol were nearly killed.” His words were biting, hushed and somber. 

Wonwoo seemed reproachful of the accusation, speaking before Chan had the opportunity to retort. “Your friend was blackmailing himself before we ever did.” His stare darkened as he crossed his arms, “Your organization is inhumane. It can’t continue,” 

“With all due respect,” Hansol interjected for the first time, his tone not quite confrontational, but certainly bordering on defensive. “None of you know anything about us. We could have been trying to stop this, too,” He was lingering near his cousin’s side, Jisoo staring blankly at the floor with furrowed brows and unsteady feet.

“Were you?” Seokmin quirked a brow, the usually excited man standing rigid, more tense than usual. 

Chan scoffed, infuriated and afraid for Soonyoung, who had been attempting to find Lee Jihoon, an easily angered, disgruntled midget of a man who could have gotten both of them killed. The thought hadn’t fully settled in any of their minds, and Chan knew he wasn’t the only one on the verge of breaking down.

“We know everything, actually. We tracked you down easily. You’re just spoiled, naive assholes--” Chan’s insults were cut short by Minghao placing a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezing, giving him a look of severe disapproval. 

Seungcheol lumbered forward at that, his composure not entirely regained, but his apparent sense of leadership seemingly being decently accessible. “That isn’t what he meant and you know that. We’re all missing friends, and in any case, we should be figuring out how to get them back.” He ran a lethargic hand through his unkempt locks, smoothing them back to the best of his ability. 

Wonwoo quirked a brow, “Friends? I wasn’t aware people like you had them.” His gaze darkened, his words taunting. 

“Wonwoo,” Minghao turned to him, his stare probing, his words carrying the kind of tense warning that could only be conveyed in situations like these. Chan personally couldn’t understand why, exactly, they were sparing the feelings of human scum-- but chose to remain silent and let the situation unfold. After all, it was better for them to get heavy, resentful feelings off of their chests before they continued. 

“No, keep going, Wonwoo.” Junhui leaned forward on his palms, sitting idly on an abandoned metal crate, twirling a pocket knife in a vaguely threatening manner. He was smiling, but it held no warmth; it was icy and brimming with a distant grief that he didn’t seem to find enough care to acknowledge. “After all, I’ve been itching for a fight since before the banquet.” He hopped off of the crate lazily, past Seungcheol’s stern words advising him not to act, past Jisoo’s pleads and Hansol’s small utterances of his name. 

Upon Junhui’s charge forward, Wonwoo held an expressionless face as he pulled his handgun from his belt, side stepping Junhui’s jab as the latter regained his balance--the ending position being a blade against Wonwoo’s throat and a gun to Junhui’s temple. There was a faint red trickling from a shallow cut on Wonwoo’s skin as Junhui smirked, the gun’s barrel being pressed with enough force to make him wince. 

Before anyone could act properly, whether they intended to pull the two apart or assist their ally--Jeonghan entered the building and huffed at the sight before him, his irritated voice barely withheld as his patience was evidently wearing thin. “I leave the room for a minute and you two are already trying to kill each other,” He pried Wonwoo’s hand away from Junhui, tugging him backwards and forcing him next to Minghao, who must be the only one aside from Seokmin that Jeonghan trusted not to pick a fight.

“Seungkwan is trying to lookout for anyone following us, remember? It’ll be hard if he can’t hear anything over your nonsense.” Jeonghan seethed as he gestured upwards to the beams where Seungkwan had managed to climb after trekking up a rusty stairwell, allowing him to look through the somewhat dirtied glass as he avoided taking part in the volatile atmosphere below. 

He continued, “We’re going to need people on both sides who are civil enough to stand each other. How else are we getting them back?” Jeonghan’s eyes fell upon Seungcheol, who had seemed ready to brawl before Jeonghan had made an appearance. 

Seungcheol glanced to his allies, inhaling deeply before speaking. “Before that, you should tell us why you chose to pester us rather than kill us outright. You had the chance, if you wanted to end the Blackjacks you could have.” His gaze was demanding, and Jeonghan’s signature condescending manner seemed to be on the verge of appearing as he replied. 

“Ending the Blackjacks doesn’t end with you, Cheollie. We wanted to make a statement,” He sniffed, “Eventually, you were going to tear yourselves apart from the inside. Our stunts would have been forgotten about,” 

“That would’ve happened without your interference,” Seungcheol’s fists clenched, “My father and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms. I could’ve come into power and things would’ve been different,”

Jeonghan stared through him, dubious. “No, they wouldn’t have. He was going to kill you, and then nothing would change. Our goal was to make him see your inability so he’d speed up the process, and then we would have taken him down as well.” Jeonghan examined his nails, “While people fought over the ‘throne’, so to speak, we’d take down your sources of income--prostitution, drugs, forced labor,” He met Seungcheol’s narrowed eyes, “Need I say more?”

Before Seungcheol could reply, Jisoo reluctantly cut him off, his eyes averted as he spoke. “I think he’s right. You remember what I said about your father’s men saying you would end up with a bullet in your head?”

Seungcheol stiffened. “If I were to step out of line, yes. And yes, I know that the execution was also set up for my humiliation,” He pointedly looked at Jeonghan as he spoke, the latter having been ready to interject with the fact as he closed his parted lips once again. “But my father needed me as a tool. As long as I proved myself useful--”

Seungcheol stopped himself, the words dying in his throat. The point had been made, the tension in the air still unrelenting as he sighed. “Look, I get it. We’re the mafia,” he gestured to those who stood behind him, “And there are lot of awful things that our technically our fault. But,” He looked at the Spades firmly, “I know that Jihoon and Soonyoung are alive.” 

Several heads perked up at that, interested, but not entirely hopeful. He continued, pleased at the lack of sudden interruptions from either party, “My father will want to know where I am. Jihoon is the only one of my inner circle who isn’t here, so he’ll assume he knows something. If Soonyoung was with him, then he may keep them both alive.” Seungcheol wrung his hands as he spoke. Chan wondered if the man was always so nervous, or if perhaps even a man of his status could fall victim to nerves and anxieties.

Minghao quietly muttered, “That’s a big ‘if’. Soonyoung was wanted by your father, and there’s no guarantee that Jihoon wouldn’t sell him out for who he was.” Minghao chewed his bottom lip, “Your father most likely thinks you’re turning against him, you know. He may not want any of your men alive,” Minghao spoke with a sense of exhaustion, fueled by the emotional depravity of the painfully unknown. 

“That could be what we’re counting on,” Jeonghan spoke suddenly, wide eyed. “He may keep Jihoon alive while knowing that Seungcheol might come for him,” He turned to Seungcheol for any reaction, but the man simply pinched the bridge of his nose. 

A voice spoke from above them all, weary. “We should rest. We can’t do anything tonight,” Seungkwan seemed sunken as he murmured, hardly loud enough to be heard. “The more we worry, the worse everything will be.” 

Chan knew that Seungkwan was the most likely out of any of them to worry until he turned grey or died of heart failure, and found his statement to be both grossly thoughtful and ridiculously hypocritical. Still, there were small hums of agreement as the two groups naturally broke off respectively, the Blackjacks retreating upstairs to an opened space while the Spades retired to a small storage room situated near the front entrance. 

Chan offered to take Seungkwan’s place, knowing all too well that the man needed to be left to his thoughts, but that he needed to rest more than that. Seokmin joined him in his offer, to which Seungkwan declined, resting a tired head on his hands as he swung his legs.

“If you fall asleep you’ll fall and die,” Chan tutted at him, “And out of all the things we’ve done, that’s a lame way to kick the bucket.” The comment managed to make Seungkwan chuckle a bit, the smallest amount of mirth filling his giggle. Seokmin forced him to promise that if he even began to feel the slightest tug of sleep in his limbs to come to him right away (insisting that Chan was a growing boy who needed his rest, to which Seungkwan playfully agreed). 

The Spades retired to the storage room, making use of boxes and abandoned cushions used to ship items of value. It was darkened and cozy, but Chan knew that the others likely weren’t sleeping, and he bleakly thought he heard steps coming in and out of the open doorway throughout the course of the night.

Chan sighed, the thought of his friend tugging at his heartstrings-- he was unable to get the energetic man’s face out of his mind, out of his plaguing thoughts. But even as he felt his eyes tearing up, felt them burning as his bottom lip trembled weakly, Chan wouldn’t cry.

Chan had promised himself he wouldn’t cry, not over anything, not over anyone since he lost his family. He wouldn’t allow himself to let his enemies win that way. 

Chan wouldn’t cry, because he hadn’t given up what was left of his childhood for more tears and more vulnerability.

Chan wouldn’t cry, and the stray wetness that flowed down his cheeks was simply from him rubbing his eyes with his right hand as his left covered his mouth, muffling his ragged breathing.

Chan wasn’t crying, but he really did miss his friend. 

 

Seungkwan had proposed to keep watch only because the tension amongst everyone below didn’t seem to help his relentless anxieties much, not to mention the fact that Hansol would be near him for an indefinite period of time, and Seungkwan wasn’t entirely sure where he stood with him. After all, it was hard to save a friendship that was supposed to fail from the start.  
And so, he resorted to aversion. Hansol certainly didn’t want to see him, and Seungkwan was plagued by a burning shame at every vague glimpse they shared. 

And so he leaned on the support beams, his feet dangling as he clutched the railing next to him that would allow him to climb back onto the stairwell once more, should he desire to. The view allowed Seungkwan to search along the property, however, Jeonghan had relinquished all of the outdoor lighting-- and so Seungkwan was truly just gazing out into an abyss of darkness, reluctant to attempt sleep, hesitant to be in a room occupied by all of his friends except one. 

Lazy, cautious footsteps drew Seungkwan out of his dazed moping. When he realized that they were coming from the upper level and approaching where he sat, Seungkwan briefly wondered if perhaps one of the Blackjacks wanted his blood on their hands. After all, a fall from where Seungkwan worriedly swung his legs could result in fatal injuries, should his assailant try hard enough. 

Seungkwan turned his head slightly, his eyes widening upon seeing a familiar face illuminated by the window pane’s silver light, casting his shadow along the wall. He took in the slight darkened hue under his eyes, the bruises and leftover bloodied remains after nearly being killed only hours prior. Then, he had activated the tracking device, only a mere seconds after Jisoo--when Seungkwan and Jeonghan met with one another (Seungkwan having brought Soonyoung with him) they both simply decided not to question the other, because explaining their choices was both uncomfortable and weirdly vulnerable given the circumstances. 

Seungkwan had briefly comforted Hansol then, him having been in a state of shock from witnessing his cousin murder a man. Of course, that wasn’t to say that Hansol faulted him-- it was just the gore, the sounds and the remembrance of it all that would haunt him, surely. 

After all, Seungkwan was haunted by like demons of his own. 

He blinked, Hansol’s stare unnerving and almost indecipherable, save for a small flicker of emotion that briefly flitted across his features upon their eyes meeting. 

Hansol looked away, choosing instead to study the flooring below. “You could fall,” He muttered, his gaze then studying the beams above their heads.

Seungkwan coughed, doing his utmost to tear his eyes away, and regretting it the moment he did so. “You could too, you know.” He did his best to grin, knowing fully well that he must look pathetic, his tease filled with nothing but an empty, persistent sadness. 

There was the sound of clambering and Seungkwan startled, not expecting to see Hansol climbing over the stairwell, unconcerned. Seungkwan shuffled to the side, allowing Hansol enough room to accompany him, but completely confused as to why he would choose to. It was perplexing and sombering, especially when Hansol’s side brushed his, the faintest traces of nerves being portrayed in how he leaned away slightly, not quite meeting Seungkwan’s guilty bewilderment.  
Seungkwan whispered shakily, “Hansol, I’m--”

He was interrupted, Hansol finally meeting his probing stare. “I know. I know why you guys are doing what you’re doing,” He exhaled slowly, “But I-- I guess, I guess things are just complicated. And it’s hard,” 

Hansol grappled for words, his brows furrowed as he toyed with his hands in his lap, causing Seungkwan to worry due to the fact that he wasn’t gripping anything to prevent him from falling and suffering a horrible death. 

He was struggling, they both were--and Seungkwan tried to fill the silence, because it was too much, and he could feel his insides eating away. “I hurt you.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, one that caused Hansol to tense, his movements falling rigid. 

Hansol nodded loosely, his hair falling into his eyes as he reached out a steady hand to grip the stairwell, having caught on to Seungkwan’s fretting. “Yeah,” There was a brief pause as he readjusted, turning to face Seungkwan entirely. “But it wasn’t entirely your fault. I’m in the mafia, I could’ve been more careful.” Hansol chewed the inside of his cheek, his sentences beginning to falter. “But I didn’t want to be,” 

Seungkwan could feel his chest tighten, his palms clammy as he stammered, “Hansol, don’t--” 

“You were funny. I’d never met someone so,” Hansol gestured grandly with his hands, his gaze searching. “I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. You were fun. I liked being with you,” 

Seungkwan couldn’t face him, not when his face was burning, not when his eyes were beginning to water. “Don’t. Please--” 

Tentatively, Hansol placed his head on Seungkwan’s shoulder, the latter holding his breath and finding that despite everything that had happened, a warm feeling seeped through his veins--it brought him comfort. 

“I missed you,” He whispered, lightly clinging to Seungkwan’s frame, loose-- if he noticed the wetness on Seungkwan’s cheeks he paid no mind, his arm becoming entangled around Seungkwan’s own. 

The night passed slowly as they shared even breaths and heavy heartbeats, neither having the willpower nor the desire of breaking the surreal, welcomed moment. Seungkwan hadn’t entirely realized how much he longed for Hansol’s presence until it was just them, no longer entirely broken apart by sides and a difference in paths. 

Seungkwan knew that it couldn’t last, whether it be their current allegiance with the Blackjacks, or simply Hansol’s warmth against his skin. 

And eventually, Hansol climbed over the railing once more, his hand skimming the length of Seungkwan’s arm lightly as he departed, his footfalls easily heard in the stiff hush that fell over the warehouse. 

Seungkwan retired to the storage room after that, finding that being alone with his newfound thoughts made him weary, and that makeshift pillows and the scent of stuffy cardboard boxes would serve as a better distraction than the deafening silence. 

 

The night air was chilly, wind smooth on his skin, cool; going unnoticed due to the gentle hum of midnight birds and crickets. 

Minghao had found that he couldn’t allow himself enough ease of mind to rest, the swaying of trees and the sound if gentle leaf rustling helping calm his unsteady nerves. The climb had been simple enough-- along the steady support beams that ran along the warehouse ceiling were windows, seated right above them. Even before Minghao had been reduced to a worrying mess, he had always sought for the comfort of watching the sky.

And if he thought long enough, he might remember the gentle scuffling of feet and innocent laughter flit through his ears from a memory abandoned, a round face staring at the sky with stars in his eyes.

But that memory was a brief blur that occasionally surfaced on nights like these, nights where Minghao was left to his own devices, a sense of familiar nostalgia settling in his bones, as if he was dancing on the verge of remembrance.

Upon the steady rhythm of creaking pipes and punctuated thudding, Minghao found that a steady sigh escaped from his lips; reluctant to even bother facing whoever had found it necessary to trudge along after him and disrupt the closest thing to peace Minghao could ever dream of attaining.

“What do you want?” It wasn’t nearly as cold as it could have been, the words softly spoken and portraying the exhaustion Minghao decided he couldn’t keep locked away anymore. 

The reply was hushed as a lithe figure gently placed himself at his side, promptly tossing his legs over the ceiling’s edge, leaning back onto his palms-- not facing Minghao entirely, who had chosen to sit cross legged and avoid the risk of a painful impact. “I heard something on the roof. I didn’t take any of your friends as the climbing type,” 

Minghao blinked, his gaze refusing to waver from the twinkling, comforting lights overhead. “It could’ve been someone trying to kill us,” 

“The mafia isn’t exactly known for coming quietly.” Junhui shifted, his stare staying locked upon the sky as well, much to Minghao’s surprise. He was an annoyance, and in times like these Minghao much preferred his own company--but he couldn’t find enough bite to force the man away, and he doubted that the simple request would be followed. 

“I like the sky.” Junhui murmured, brushing his hair out of his face. “It reminds me of home,” 

It was first time Minghao had heard his voice without a trace of amusement, without that vile sense of self importance and a lack of care, a lack of worry. It wasn’t something that should have taken him aback, because Wen Junhui was certainly a human-- but it did nevertheless, and Minghao never got to see this side of his victims when on the job; he avoided their vulnerabilities, detachment was the easiest way to do bad things. 

And it could have been the fact that Minghao had trained himself not to associate his targets with emotions, to treat them as two dimensional enigmas with cruel goals and no use for taking up space. Whether that made him weak or efficient, Minghao wasn’t certain--but he could blame his next question on a rare indulgence, a simple tribute to the lives he’d taken without sparing a glance.  
“Why did you leave?” It came before Minghao could prevent it, and the fact that it wasn’t entirely unwelcome forced a seed of doubt into the pit of his stomach.

“My family gave me up in exchange for my little brother’s life. They were addicts who couldn’t pay,” Junhui didn’t flinch as he spoke, a sad lack of emotion far too prevalent. He continued, his tone all too breezy, “I was taken from China to South Korea, and the Blackjacks made me work in a drug den,” 

He paused, something akin to laughter bubbling in his throat. “It was ironic, I know. I was eight then, and I stayed there until Seungcheol’s dad starting touring him around all of their ‘facilities’--and when Seungcheol and I began talking he insisted that I go with them for training. Maybe because I was similar in his age, and the demand for drugs wasn’t meeting manufacturing since it was before they really started lacing everything,” He laid back, folding his hands delicately on his chest. “I was fifteen, then. And I remember staring up at the sky that night before leaving the next morning,” 

Minghao felt something twinge in his chest. Everyone had disturbing stories in the mafia, it was a dangerous and corrupt business--but the fact that this particular story was so achingly familiar, a mirror of his own, sent an unwanted reflection back at him. 

And it was the way that Junhui’s hair was swept back gently, his eyes widened and glinting under the moon’s gentle rays--Minghao could nearly picture it, baggier clothes, a wider face, a happier voice--

“You’re staring.” Junhui grinned at him devilishly, the tease overtaking his previously disinterested tone completely. 

Minghao startled, as the beginnings of a pink tinting began to spread across his face as Minghao silently thanked the darkness that surrounded them. “I was just thinking,” His words were slowed and cautious. Sympathizing with Junhui was dangerous, their stance neutral only at the moment; after all, circumstances were ever changing, and should Junhui once again become his target, Minghao couldn’t risk being unable to kill him if needed. 

Minghao could feel Junhui tracing him with his gaze, lingering along his face as he propped himself up with one hand. 

“Worrying won’t help.” Despite his inappropriate attempt at flattery, Junhui somehow managed to transition rather abruptly into a more serious tone once again, his expression blank and lacking in amusement (though not giving any hints of sadness, either). “You won’t be able to focus if you don’t rest,” 

Minghao shrugged, the corners of his unbuttoned dress shirt slipping slightly as he did so. He hurried to pull it upwards once again, “If it were that easy then you wouldn’t be here, either.” He attempted to ignore the way Junhui had gazed at his scarring, attempted to ignore the fact that he hadn’t recoiled in disgust or showered Minghao in pity.

He just studied, silent, pressing. 

Minghao met his stare abruptly, seeing as Junhui was much closer than he remembered, apparently having drawn nearer to peer at the hideous wording left upon his collarbones. Minghao urged himself to lean back, his heartbeat increasing, his mind blanking upon the way his eyes fell to Junhui’s parted lips, quickly drawing away and meeting his piercing, indecipherable surveying.

Junhui stood, making a show of stretching his limbs as Minghao was left in the aftermath of having nearly just succumbed to feelings he hadn’t been aware of, feelings that were certainly, truthfully just drawn from the quiet, from the stress--

Words of truth and lies bounced around in his mind, and Minghao briefly realized that he was willing to allow his truth to be whatever it needed to be, because that was what was needed of him. 

And if he had taken a moment to think upon it all, he would realize that one couldn’t simply admit to a lie and still believe it to be true--after all, while lies and denial do occasionally intersect, the clear difference is that one chooses to refuse the truth, while the other chooses to accept it's faults.

“You’re weird.” The words tumbled easily, Minghao willing the racing of blood in his ears to subside. 

Junhui grinned wolfishly, already in the process of tangling himself through a window. “Maybe,” He agreed, the word being loud in Minghao’s head despite being spoken quietly.

And if Minghao thought long enough, he could put everything together, and the truth would melt into a confusingly simple picture. 

But things were not always so simple, and Minghao instead retired to the storage room with a heavy heart and spinning thoughts. 

How could he dwindle when his friends needed him the most? 

 

Jeonghan wasn’t distrusting, at least, not exactly--but when housing a former enemy in your territory, one was bound to remain vigilant and fueled with suspicion. 

Truthfully, Jeonghan wasn’t entirely sure why he acted as he did; aside from the fact that his men knew their getaway plan and both Hansol and Jisoo seemed absolutely clueless as to any means of escape--it seemed that neither had possessed any hope to make it further than they had managed to before Jeonghan and Seungkwan’s arrival, after all; and in a moment’s desperation Jeonghan decided he wanted to help them.

One could argue that his choice had already been made for him once he freed Jisoo from his ties, allowing him to do with his personal information as he pleased (while also supplying him an escape route) but Jeonghan found that he was hesitant to view it that way. Of course, helping your enemy was a slippery slope that most likely should be avoided, but one that had to be navigated in the grand scheme of things. Should Jisoo have ended up in a poor position, he would have only a single option, one that would lead him right into Jeonghan’s grasp--and then, in exchange for safety, he could provide information to be used against the Blackjacks. 

At least, that’s what Jeonghan had told himself as he and Seokmin quietly departed. Because all things considered, Jeonghan somehow didn’t see himself ending the night with blood on his hands and a hand in his as they smashed through windows and plummeted into darkened waters. 

Jeonghan could have abandoned them. 

He didn’t, though. Because despite his stern talk of doing cruel things for greater intentions, Jeonghan could never allow himself to simply observe two people desperately fighting for their lives in a game of chess they were forced to play.

And even if he should have reprimanded Seungkwan for slipping one of the tracking devices to Hansol, it would have simply been nothing short of hypocrisy, given the fact that Jisoo had been gifted one by his own traitorous hand. 

In the midst of the chaos, the Spades hadn’t truly been able to converse about it, and the truth had not been revealed that both their leader and close friend had given the Blackjacks a means of contact, a means of being saved. 

Jeonghan feared their reaction. But more so than that, he feared their judgement. 

Hearing Seungkwan’s constant fidgets and Seokmin’s snores was enough to drive anyone beyond their sanity. If they were back in their apartment, it would have been easy enough to gently close a door or play a soft lull of music to dull the sounds that were inevitable when having roommates. And even if their apartment had always been on the arguably small side for all of them, sharing a single space was more exhausting than not sleeping at all. 

Jeonghan was careful not to awaken those who slept around him (after all, Chan’s labored breaths had only ceased a few moments prior, the boy falling victim to night terrors quite often) as he navigated sleeping forms and light snores.

Should anything ever go horribly wrong (much as it already had) the Spades had prepared a small pantry stuffed with bottled water, canned foods, and a mini fridge containing a small amount of alcoholic beverages, because as Jeonghan’s mother would say--when life goes wrong, drinks go right.

Then again, his mother was also a raging alcoholic, so Jeonghan chose to forgo the advice except for when it was exceptionally needed, such as it was in the moment. The pantry was small, leaving hardly any walking room, it was narrowed-- fitting shelves in there had been horrendous enough to keep Minghao from ever entering the room for the rest of his days. (He had also insisted that he would never speak to Seungkwan again after the man accidentally knocked a shelf over, leaving Minghao trapped for an hour.) But the two had made up after a brief apology followed by Seungkwan paying for them to eat out a fancy restaurant, much to everyone's relief. 

When Jeonghan pushed open the creaky door that was nearly ready to fall from it’s hinges, he hadn’t been expecting to see Hong Jisoo sitting with his knees tucked against his chest and a flashlight sitting nearby, his eyes widened, himself gaping as though he had somehow caused Jeonghan a great offense by his very existence.

Flustered, he hurriedly began attempting to stand, but he was uncoordinated from possible prolonged sitting and in order for him to leave, Jeonghan would be forced to move backwards lest they choose to slide by one another chest to chest. 

Fretting, Jisoo whispered, “Sorry, I didn’t--” 

Jeonghan smiled, a brief glimpse of amusement on his face, the first since their tense situation had arose. “You’re fine,” He spoke lowly, taking in the redness of Jisoo’s eyes, the swelling of his cheeks and wet trails leading down to his neck. 

He hadn’t intended to reach out to him, but action ensued easily enough, his hand entangling itself around Jisoo’s wrist easily. Before he could speak, however, he was timidly interjected by Jisoo. 

“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to be alone somewhere,” His voice wavered slightly, and upon realizing that Jeonghan was preparing to give him his desired space he quickly added, “No, stay. This is your place, isn’t it?” Jisoo smiled, though it was forlorn and obviously fake in nature, and even if Jeonghan was an expert at covering his own emotions he decided that not even showing a hint of vulnerability would most likely only serve to make Jisoo feel worse about himself.

Jeonghan wasn’t sure how to ease the tension in the air, because Jisoo’s nerves were fried and even then Jeonghan, too, was falling on the fragile end of things. 

He settled for a friendly half smile, “Do you like wine?” 

Jisoo’s apprehension seemed to fade a bit as he giggled, “You’re getting me drunk, now?” 

Jeonghan shook his head, but allowed a teasing wink in jest before elaborating. “No. But there’s enough room for both of us back there,” He pointed to the end of the narrowed hallway, where a small mini fridge sat cornered. Jeonghan grinned, “You seem like a wine guy. And I can’t sleep, either,” 

Jisoo thanked him and nodded a bit, before turning around somewhat awkwardly and returning to his original spot as Jeonghan easily fetched the red wine, settling beside Jisoo in a way that should’ve been uncomfortable, but left both of them feeling rather comforted, in the worst possible way. 

And it was almost easy, seeing Jisoo’s figure outlined by the flashlight’s ever dimming glow as the batteries began to die, and pretending that they had the chance to be close, to be anything other than what they were. 

What that was, exactly, was something Jeonghan found he wasn’t certain of; and that Jisoo’s soothing, honey colored voice was becoming entirely too welcomed--the presence of alcohol was sure to deter Jeonghan’s mental reminders further, and yet, seeing the man before him with messy hair and swollen eyes fueled his system with reckless behavior, as was becoming a habit of theirs. 

Upon the realization that neither of them had any container to drink out of (or anything to open the bottle with), Jeonghan felt himself beginning to offer that he go searching, before Jisoo timidly pulled a small corkscrew from his pocket, grinning sheepishly. “I, um--” He laughed breathily, something that caused Jeonghan’s throat to dry. “I nicked this earlier, from the banquet,” Jeonghan found it incredibly amusing that someone who was so heavily involved in mafia action seemed hesitant to relay that he had stolen a wine opener, of all things.

Jeonghan chose to tease him about it nonetheless, quirking an eyebrow and feigning a disappointed expression. “I’m sorry, I guess we can’t continue. I wouldn’t want to taint my pure, God filled soul.” Jisoo punched him lightly, the wine being opened with a satisfying ‘pop’ that was nearly too loud for their bemused whisperings. 

Jeonghan moved to stand, in order to find a glass of sorts for both of their use before Jisoo interrupted him. “I’m fairly certain I heard one of the Spades snap at Mingyu for asking for a glass of water, something about the warehouse budget only being spent on necessities?” He smiled in exasperation, “I wouldn’t have guessed that wine would have been included, though,” 

Jeonghan reddened at that, unsure of how to respond as he barely managed to keep himself from fidgeting. “Ah, the Spades are used to sharing things likes drinks and food, just for money’s sake, but I figured you’d prefer--”

“I don’t mind. When I worked in the factory we shared whatever scraps we could find.” Jisoo’s eyes were warm, and Jeonghan was sure that they worked as the sun did, because the heat was comforting enough to keep Jeonghan from protesting further, instead choosing to rejoin Jisoo’s company. Their sides brushed as they passed the bottle lightly, both avoiding meeting the other’s gaze as they did so; because surely you weren’t supposed to be sharing a drink with someone who stood morally grey as far as neutrality went. They were former enemies temporarily allied, but aside from those closest by your side, friendship and a lack of violence never seemed to persist, especially for a mafia member and someone who swore to destroy them. 

“Thank you.” Jisoo spoke abruptly, his stare searching as Jeonghan’s fingers brushed his gently, the bottle leaving Jisoo’s careful grasp. 

It would be naive of Jeonghan to pretend as if he had no idea of what Jisoo was mentioning. It was detrimental to his plan, he had jeopardized his operation solely because Jisoo had needed his assistance.

And even then, he could have left, left Jisoo to his demise, left he and Hansol to be publicly executed by a devastated Choi Seungcheol. 

He hadn’t, though. And it wasn’t because Jeonghan was some kind of saint, driven by good intentions and a pure heart.  
It wasn’t because Jisoo brought him any benefit, wasn’t because he sought revenue from arguably good actions.

In the end, Jeonghan hadn’t wanted to see Jisoo hurt. Whatever complicated reasons may have influenced his decision hadn’t mattered, and Jeonghan stained his hands red if only to keep Jisoo’s own blood from dying a twisted stage crimson as an audience clapped for a cruel display. 

Jeonghan chose his next words carefully, deciding against acknowledging the weight of his actions. “When you met with Seokmin and I, you didn’t try anything. I was repaying you for that,” 

Jisoo’s eyes widened, the tense atmosphere slightly lightened as he stared. “He was going by DK, wasn’t he?” His tone was disbelieving, because yes, Jeonghan had just in fact revealed that without blinking. 

Jeonghan shrugged in response, attempting to hide his smile. “A name won’t change anything, you know where our base is. One of them, anyway,” He winked, causing Jisoo to roll his eyes before shoving Jeonghan in retaliation. It was lacking in any sort of true aggression, and Jeonghan attempted to ignore the way Jisoo’s touch lingered on his chest briefly, his eyes flitting downward as Jisoo’s hand was retracted.

“Saving someone and not harming someone are not the same,” Jisoo clicked his tongue, drawing attention away from his distracted ministrations. There was no slur to his wording, but his demeanor was significantly relaxed, and Jeonghan found relief in the fact that he and Jisoo both were relatively decent drinkers.

Jeonghan felt a slight buzz in his head, spreading to his chest, his limbs heavied in a familiar way that he should consider avoiding, especially with his current company. 

“Also, um,” Jisoo’s gaze was directed towards the flooring, as if it interested him immensely, but Jeonghan was painfully aware of the fact that the tile was incredibly bland, and that Jisoo was truly just attempting to avoid Jeonghan’s stare. “Thank you for helping after-- after that. I didn’t know what to do,” His voice held the slightest tremble, and Jeonghan knew what had been keeping Jisoo awake. 

He continued, passing the bottle to Jeonghan with a saddened, unbefitting smile. “I’m not sure how to deal with knowing that I took someone’s life away,” His tone was a vague attempt at being casual, although the way he chewed the inside of his cheek suggested that the ordeal was anything but casual for him. 

“I don’t, either,” The words tumbled from Jeonghan’s lips loosely, before his eyes fell upon Jisoo as the blood drained from his face. 

“Oh God, you hadn’t killed before--” Jisoo withdrew, startled, the slight shake to his words giving way to unsteady wavering. “Jeonghan, I’m sorry--”

Jeonghan leaned forward, surprised at his recklessness, concluding that the alcohol had eased his worries a bit too much. The last thing he wanted was to cause Jisoo any sort of panic, his hands immediately placing themselves firmly on the other man’s shoulders. “Stop, it was my decision. You wouldn’t blame Hansol for you killing that man, right?” Jisoo glared downwards, reluctant to face Jeonghan in their sudden close proximity, guilt clawing at his insides.  
“No, but--” Jisoo’s protests were cut short by Jeonghan readjusting slightly, interrupting Jisoo with the way he released his arms tenderly, Jeonghan chastising him all the while. 

“Then don’t feel guilty. You have enough to worry about already, don’t waste your time feeling bad over something I did.” Jeonghan was on his knees now, having lurched forward to keep Jisoo from another fit of panic-- the latter having pressed himself against the wall as he had recoiled, as though his being near would disgust Jeonghan somehow.

And perhaps they would both be better off it did, because the air was strangely still now, Jeonghan searching Jisoo’s tender, darkened eyes for something he couldn’t place. 

Tentatively, Jisoo reached out a hand, smoothing creases in Jeonghan’s shirt along his shoulder. His throat was still dry, even after the sweetened wine had cooled his throat, and Jeonghan was sure that his beating heart was just an after effect of succumbing to a slightly dazed state. 

Jeonghan found himself becoming far too aware of their closeness, of the slight lingering droplet of scarlett on the edge of Jisoo’s lips, of the way Jisoo was watching his gaze as it flickered. 

Jeonghan inhaled sharply, meeting Jisoo’s glazed eyes with an almost certainly blurred look of his own. 

And Jeonghan was nervous, but Jisoo was magnetic, as if the slightest twitch of his finger or visible tilt of his head was enough to pull him forward.

Jisoo straightened, both of their figures becoming closer still, a warmth spreading throughout Jeonghan’s veins that he knew wasn’t simply from the wine that stained his lips, that relaxed both of their usually guarded systems. 

Jisoo’s hand brushed his, and he broke the silence with a slight whisper. “We’re leaving before dawn. Seungcheol is worried you might sell us out in exchange for your friend,” Hesitantly, Jisoo brushed a strand of hair away from Jeonghan’s face, his touch feather light and gentle, as if Jeonghan might crumble beneath his fingers.

“I wouldn’t.” Jeonghan answered truthfully, meeting Jisoo’s vulnerability with earnesty of his own. Jisoo’s hand settled along his cheek, stroking it comfortingly, as Jeonghan had done for him not even a day prior. 

“I know.” Jisoo’s eyes were a universe of their own, everchanging, portraying every emotion and hiding them all at once. 

Jeonghan felt his hand reaching for Jisoo’s, their fingers entangling. “Stay,” 

Jisoo’s face fell as he shook his head, equally as earnest as he replied, “I can’t.” His words were melancholic, but they were stern, leaving no room for objections. 

“I know.” Jeonghan felt a small smile form as the corners of his lips lifted upwards, and in a moment of drunken bravery and bittersweet goodbyes, Jeonghan pulled his hand away from Jisoo’s clutches before settling on his chin, his thumb swiping the stray remnants off of Jisoo’s lips. He didn’t know what it meant or why the act came so naturally, why it compelled him so, but the fog in his head prevented him from fretting too much about it, acting on his feelings and compulsion alone. 

Jisoo leaned forward, kissing the edge of Jeonghan’s lips, soft and timid, pulling away after a moment’s lingerance. He didn’t cross the line that would leave them both in shambles, that would leave them with more on their minds than they needed. 

Even so, Jeonghan still found the urge to hold him close being ever persistent in a way that wasn’t simply fueled by drunken antics. Jisoo spared them both when he pulled away, because neither were quite sure what it meant, because both were sure that it didn’t matter what it meant, because they couldn’t afford to have this. 

“Be careful,” Jisoo began to pull away, lightly pushing past Jeonghan, his desire of staying evident in his lethargy, his reluctance to truly leave. “Don’t let them catch you,” 

Jeonghan returned his sentiments, watching Jisoo as he turned, seconds away from leaving both of them to their respectively dangerous thoughts. “You too,” 

As Jeonghan rolled the wine bottle under one of the shelves, not having the will to find a place to dispose of it, he pondered on different futile scenarios where he and Jisoo met outside of political games and underground crimes, where they could afford to be young and reckless without consequences. 

As Jeonghan settled back into the musty, cramped storage room, he watched dawnlight come filtering through cracks in the door all too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This chapter was so much fun to write. I've already started on chapter 5, and I hope you enjoy it :) Comments and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading ^^


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mild Violence Warning**
> 
> Even in the worst of times, Seungcheol finds a way. Jihoon struggles to maintain hope, but it seems to come in unlikely ways. Mingyu struggles to understand the past, and himself most of all.

Time didn’t seem to pass the same. 

It could’ve been the way that Jihoon’s legs were numb from the restraints on his chair, it could’ve been the cloth over his head, dark and impenetrable, keeping him from being able to differentiate between whether or not the room was lit. It could’ve been the waiting, waiting for anyone, anything--and then when the waiting halted, leaving Jihoon bruised bloodier than before, every time.

Time didn’t seem to pass the same. 

Jihoon was disoriented, unsure of whether it was daylight or simply his own mind stretching the hours--and the fact that he was alone made it all the harder to deal with. As of now, Kwon Soonyoung, as he had quickly learned was Hoshi’s real name-- could be anywhere, suffering anything; or quite frankly, dead. 

Jihoon didn’t know the details, and truthfully didn’t care to. Soonyoung had been running with the wrong people before he stole wads of cash and destroyed one the Blackjack’s drug manufacturing dens, along with being suspected for the deaths of numerous high ranking officials. They had been tracking him for what sounded to be at least two years, before his activity diminished significantly; most likely when he formed some sort of allegiance with the Spades. 

Jihoon was suspected to be an accomplice of some sort, the last of Seungcheol’s remaining inner circle, seeing as the rest had vanished into smoky air and shattered glass. Jihoon hadn’t managed to grapple for enough information yet, but it was likely that Seungcheol’s father now believed that the Spades had been working under his son’s orders all along, in order to sabotage his father’s reputation and profit. 

As a result, Soonyoung would most definitely be punished in unimaginably gruesome ways; seeing as his crimes from an apparent rebellious phase seemed to catch up to him--and Jihoon was left only in enough pain to be obligated to speak, but left with enough comprehension to be kept from fainting and within the ever blurring lines of sanity. 

They needed him, Jihoon was Mr.Choi’s only hope in finding the whereabouts of his son--having a single one of his son’s closest confidants admitting to conspiracy would enable him to take matters into his own hands in a more brusque manner rather than attempting to keep things as secretive as they were. After all, news of Choi Seungcheol’s disappearance (or death, depending on how competent you were) would spread fast, and while it would be no true secret of the events that took place, publicly admitting to those within Blackjack ranks that he had defeated his son would gain Mr.Choi a newfound respect. 

If he wasn’t feared before, he most certainly would be now. 

There was an issue, however. 

Jihoon had absolutely no idea as to where his friends had vanished to. Of course, he had no plans on selling them out--it was more so that should he somehow manage to escape death itself and find the world outside of metal chairs and pain, Jihoon doesn’t have the slightest idea as to where to go. Of course, he could try a wide variety of their agreed meeting spots; but Jihoon was unsure of how many remained uncompromised, and without transportation, he would most likely fall too far behind and be left unable to find them. 

Soonyoung knew more than he did, surely. But the man was as stubborn as he Jihoon himself and most likely wouldn’t relent, perhaps taking the secret of the Blackjacks and the Spades to his grave, which had found him at last. 

The door was thrown open violently, causing Jihoon to flinch upon it’s impact, as he had been doing for several hours whenever someone arrived. There were many footsteps this time, along with muffled screams and the awful sound of something scooting harshly enough against the floor the damage it. Something was knocked over, righted again only to be roughly jostled-- and then the noises slowly decreased in volume as the footfalls approached Jihoon and harshly tore the cloth from his head, nearly choking him in the process. 

Hacking, Jihoon didn’t notice the presence sitting quite miserably in front of him until the door’s loud slamming jarred him once again. 

Jihoon stared, as wide eyed as his swollen cheeks would allow him at a decently alive Kwon Soonyoung, who didn’t reflect his shock, but only glared through him, hollow. 

“You’re alive.” Jihoon croaked, using his voice for the first time since his second beating, having decided that speaking was futile. 

“I guess.” Soonyoung hung his head, wounds deeper, voice scratchy from evident overuse. “It fucking hurts,” 

And maybe it was the fact that Jihoon had been proven wrong, that something hadn’t gone as it always had in these types of situations that gave him a tiny, dangerous glimmer of hope. After all, they kept Soonyoung alive, and all of his limbs seemed to be present-- he was also able to speak, which most likely implied more about Soonyoung’s spirit than the methods used against him. 

And maybe that same stray from pattern scared Jihoon, the fact that they were together was highly unusual--the only time that occurred was when one person was being used against the other, separated by glass, both watching the as the other was inevitably killed from their injuries. 

But Soonyoung was in the same room, facing him, his eyes reflecting Jihoon’s own exhaustion. 

Soonyoung spat, a mixture of blood and saliva hitting the floor as he sneered. “Fuckers--should’ve knocked my teeth out,” 

Jihoon hardly had the energy to interact, let alone keep himself awake--but despite his usual mannerisms, human contact that wasn’t purely hurtful was so welcomed that he was compelled to speak anyway. “Why’s that?” 

“‘Cause,” Soonyoung grinned, it was pained and depraved, and perhaps bordering on startling, the sheer contrast between his eyes and the upturns of his bloodied lips. “Now, we’re gonna figure out how to leave.” It was more than Jihoon had seen in anyone, let alone himself-- how anyone could somehow seem so willing in such a vulnerable, humiliating position was beyond Jihoon’s comprehension.  
Kwon Soonyoung, unlike Jihoon, didn’t seem to accept death as answer-- it was an obstacle to be overcome until it loomed over him once again. 

And for the first time since he’d met his friends, Jihoon felt a sliver of genuine admiration in his chest-- not enough to truly make him believe that they could possibly escape this, but enough to make him realize that maybe, (just maybe), Jihoon should have learned to see the strengths in people before he landed himself a death sentence. 

Jihoon didn’t believe it, that they could escape--but somehow, seeing the fact that it was something that Soonyoung believed so earnestly, was enough to keep his cynicism at bay.

“Let’s hear it.” Jihoon couldn’t share Soonyoung’s grin, or his ideas of a grand escape--but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to spend his last moments before death shrouded in doubt and without even a false sense of ideology. 

Soonyoung opened his mouth to speak, before the men emerged once again. 

Jihoon found that the kicks and punches hurt slightly less this time when someone with as much fight in their system as Soonyoung was enduring them as well, his curses and insults only bringing him more infliction in the end. 

Jihoon wondered if it satisfied him, at all. 

 

Seungcheol had lived to see the ground he walked on cave beneath his feet and send him falling--whether or not he would hit the ground hadn’t seemed to be decided. 

After escaping the banquet, his father had chosen to portray a false narrative of the events within the Blackjacks, relaying that Seungcheol had chosen to betray them all in an attempt to take over the empire for his own selfish desires. 

Rumor had it there was a bounty on his head.

Even if his father knew politics, there was no mistaking that Seungcheol knew them as well-- after all, he had been taught by the cruellest man he knew how to calculate your opponent, how to stop them before they started. 

Tides could change, as they always had. Seungcheol had kept secrets as well-- secret escape places, secret contact with those outside of his everyday he knew he could trust, despite their numbers seeming to decrease as the days went by.  
Still, now that Seungcheol had managed to grapple with the devastating reality that he was now a wanted dead man, it was no secret that those who were in mafia ranks would seize opportunity as they saw fit-- because even if his father had believed that he shut down any traitorous thoughts by proving himself victorious, in the end, the fact that it was speculated that Seungcheol made it as far as he did was enough to plant seeds of doubt.

His distant relatives would be visiting soon, playing games of threats and deals. It was a dizzying game of chess, and though Seungcheol had been stumped from his plans of remaining inconspicuous; he still had yet to be checkmated. 

The house was clean and polished, paid for in a savings account having been managed by Jisoo himself, kept away in case of emergencies--and although the Spades had proved to be a temporary ally, Seungcheol doubted that they would willingly house those they sought to destroy. In fact, negotiations with his father for the safety of their comrade didn’t seem unlikely; and it wasn’t as if the Spades had liked them to begin with.

And so they fled, once again. Seungcheol gave them time to settle in, to explore and linger in their thoughts that were surely swimming--because to propose his plan on them now would be too soon, he would have to wait until their nerves had calmed. 

The living room was open and airy, and despite the silence and overall heaviness that seemed to follow them all-- Seungcheol somehow found comfort in the fact that they all crowded around the same seats, one another’s presence offering quietened consoling. 

“You’re too quiet.” Hansol glanced at him behind the magazine he was half heartedly flipping through, the catalog having nothing that suited Hansol’s taste, and Hansol himself most likely just wanted to avoid sitting still. “It’s making me nervous,” 

Mingyu nodded, the man also incapable of hiding his nerves, and instead pacing around, taking a seat every few seconds and then standing up again. “You have a plan, right? It wouldn’t be like you to not have one.” He paused before continuing, “I mean, if you don’t have one it’s understandable, I mean, I under--” 

“I can’t stand this. Seungcheol, could you please stop trying to spare us our feelings?” Jisoo spoke curtly, the man rarely ever raising his voice. He continued once the room’s eyes fell onto his figure. “There isn’t going to be a perfect time to talk. There never has been,” His voice dwindled in volume, being certainly above his average loudness but not necessarily a yell by any means-- it was just enough to convey the message that Jisoo was so apparently hellbent on.

“Hey,” Seungcheol found himself attempting to smile, despite his shock still evident on his features. “I could pull out a gun and you shoot you for real. They’re hidden all over,” 

Jisoo opened his arms, “By all means, take aim.” 

Hansol frowned, “That’s not funny, put your arms down.” There was the slightest hint of disapproval seeping into his voice, and Jisoo offered an apologetic smile as his arms rested in his lap once again. 

“Right.” Seungcheol cleared his throat, his slight grin settling into a thin line. “Our allies are numbered, and we’re missing someone who should be here.” A stiffness followed his words, “I’m sure that I can find someone on the inside to make sure he’s alive. Beyond that, though, I’m sure we won’t receive any help.” 

“Of course,” Junhui interjected, “Your absence is forcing those who are loyal to you to turn away. What else would they do?” He stretched his legs, contemplative. “Without your influence being respected we have no one to rely on,” 

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Seungcheol shifted, his thinned lips stretching into a wolfish grin. “Kim Namjoon, a favorite cousin of mine. His influence is powerful and he’s openly criticized my father in the past. He manufactures most of our weapons, so his words were ignored, if not for a few deaths here and there.” 

Hansol’s eyes flashed, apprehensive. “He may try to step up now that you’re gone.” 

Seungcheol shook his head, “No. There’s going to be a bloodbath, Namjoon is smart enough to know that. He most likely just wants to avoid the conflict and keep his trading rates stable,” 

Mingyu spoke up, uncertain, having paused his constant jitter for a fast paced foot shuffling. “What about Jihoon?”

Hearing his name brought forth a pang throughout Seungcheol’s chest. He inhaled deeply, forcing his worries down. “Namjoon’s known for stealth agents, we’ve worked with them before. With the right price and benefits put into place I’m sure we can work something out,” 

Seungcheol could see them considering his words. Their input was important to him, but he also didn’t see how they could continue as they were, hopping from hideout to hideout until they were eventually discovered. They lacked the resources to infiltrate themselves, and most of their other resource suppliers were already biased towards his father, the arguably more dangerous of the two.

“When do we leave?” Junhui smirked, a shadow of his usual carefree self slipping through his strangely sombered demeanor. 

The others began standing as well, exchanging words of showering and finding bags to stuff some of the house’s toiletries in. 

Seungcheol didn’t bother to hide his relief. “Get clean and take whatever you can. I’ll look around for the guns--I haven’t visited in awhile.” 

The next few hours were spent in preparation, multiple figures scurrying about with dampened hair and shirts stuffed with a wide variety of things, some basic necessities, others simply special edition snacks that didn’t expire for at least another eight months. 

In a game of chess, sacrifices must be made in order to win. If Seungcheol had to give up his influence in order to save those he truly cared about, that was what he would do--because the game was won as long as his friends were safe. 

 

Finding their way to Namjoon’s primary residence had been exhausting. Slinking into a neighboring city and contacting his office via payphone had been difficult enough, and verifying Seungcheol’s identity over a faulty landline had been another difficulty altogether. They hadn’t even managed to properly speak to Namjoon himself, being put through assistant after assistant, the risk of the call being some sort of ploy to reveal Namjoon’s apparent disloyalty in a time of family crisis being all too pressing. 

Eventually, it seemed that the message had been conveyed somewhere along the line that only Namjoon could properly identity his voice, and Mingyu was grateful that in the forty minutes Seungcheol stood in the payphone booth he had at least managed contact.

A car had been sent their way from one of Namjoon’s more local workplaces, the ride to his estate taking almost an hour, leading them out of city limits--it seemed as though Kim Namjoon preferred a life away from dizzying street lights and the constant buzz of sirens and the scraping of tires against tired asphalt. 

The estate was luxurious, decorated with statues and art varying from cultures and time periods, seeming to favor golden trims with his portraits. It was roughly three stories, and although the Choi family home was larger in scale it seemed as though Namjoon trusted his employees to accompany him, people outside of everyday chores; office workers and secretaries scurrying about. 

Per Namjoon’s request, only Mingyu was allowed to accompany Seungcheol to meet with his cousin, seeing as he was acting as his bodyguard. An elegantly suited man led them to an elevator which dinged softly at their entering and departure, the experience even being accompanied by a soft, lulling jazz being played through speakers installed. 

The atmosphere had most certainly been designed to bring one at ease, and although it was an effective business tactic, it was one that differed greatly from what Mingyu was used to. The Choi’s lived in monochrome shades and unsettling silence, averted threats and blank faced distrust. 

Mingyu knew better than to think of the atmosphere of anything other than a ploy in itself, but he somehow found the change far too welcome-- should the interior have resembled his usual workplace Mingyu might have fell ill, whether it be from unwelcome memories or just the sheer reminder of their situation was something he decided didn’t need to be understood. 

Golden halls and dim lighting illuminated their presence as they were escorted to a room with double oak doors, the man who escorted them allowing them to their own devices as they entered.

The room was straightened and cleaned, crisp paperwork sat in tidy stacks as Namjoon glanced up at their entry, having been scanning an envelope with disinterest. “Take a seat,” He gestured to the victorian chairs before him, all polished oak and scarlett cushions. 

They both obliged, knowing better than to properly convey their distress, but knowing that too much lethargy in their movements could be taken as an insult. Seungcheol cleared his throat after a beat of silence in which Namjoon had studied them both, intrigued. 

“I’m assuming you know most of what has happened already. But, what occurred at the banquet was not something I orchestrated,” Seungcheol chose to forgo pleasantries and introductions, something Mingyu was grateful for-- judging by the soft tapping of Namjoon’s fingers, it seemed he was eager to hear the details that pertained to Seungcheol’s visit, and the certain request for assistance that would follow. 

“So I’ve heard.” Namjoon paused, sliding the paper in his hand forward. It was an invitation made of ominous newspaper clippings, signalling a meeting of sorts regarding the most elite members of the Blackjacks. Satisfied with Mingyu and Seungcheol’s exchanged glance, Namjoon openly shredded the invite, a thin lipped smile on his face as his muscles visibly relaxed. “I’ve got eyes everywhere. I know better than to believe whatever gossip floats around. But I doubt you’ve come to me just to clear your name,” 

Mingyu swallowed thickly, he hadn’t been anticipating Mr. Choi to seek reconciling with those perturbed by events at the banquet so soon-- it was more like him to keep them with baited breath and unconfirmed suspicions. 

Seungcheol only revealed his troubles with the news with a the slightest twitch of his brow. “I’m grateful for your intelligence, Namjoon-- it isn’t common among our ranks. And you’re right, I’ve come to ask you for a favor.” 

Namjoon leaned forward, his face propped on his hands. “Favors don’t exist, Cheol. You’ve come with a bargain,” 

Seungcheol flashed a grin. “Right again. In exchange for your assistance to kill my father and help me retrieve an ally of mine, I’ll give you twenty five percent of all my earnings from our South Korean casinos, along with co-leadership of the Blackjacks.” Seungcheol’s eyes flashed as he spoke, “My father’s death is long overdue. It was a task I thought impossible, but--”  
“Your concern is valid, seeing as you currently have two million over your head--and it’s increasing.” Namjoon returned his cousin’s smirk with ease, “I want fifty percent with promise of reform. We can’t simply kill your father, we have many relatives who won’t stand for it. We take them and their revenue first,” 

Seungcheol nodded, “I agree with the idea of reform wholeheartedly.” He stretched, a dangerous look glinting in his eyes. “Thirty five percent, then.” 

Namjoon barked out a laugh. “You’ve learned well. But I’m afraid that won’t cut it-- you see, my business and it’s clients are expanding, I’m not tied down anymore. There isn’t much stopping me from dismissing you and remaining uninvolved,” Namjoon’s face fell neutral once more, the atmosphere growing tense. “Forty five percent, Cheol.” 

Mingyu knew that a drop of five percent wasn’t enough for Seungcheol, the man’s leg beginning to bounce, signalling his frustrations. “Thirty percent,” 

Namjoon smiled fondly, a gesture that was considered affectionate given that family relations in the mafia were usually quite stiff. “I don’t think so,” 

“Thirty five percent across the Southeast,” Mingyu spoke without registering that his voice had left his head and entered the physical world, as both Seungcheol and Namjoon’s stare fell upon him. 

“Thirty five percent of all casinos in the Choi name across the Southeast?” Namjoon’s eyes glinted. “You’ve got a deal on my end, Cheol.”

Seungcheol barely managed to contain the genuine smile that threatened to spill-- it seemed that the possibilities that awaited them was greater than the awkwardness of Mingyu having spoken on his behalf without being directed to do so. “Deal. I assume you’ll let us stay?” 

Namjoon leaned across his desk, the corners of his lips upturned. “Of course. I look forward to our partnership, now that you’re not too scared of reform,” 

Seungcheol frowned, his face reddening in a slight indignation. “It was impractical given the circumstances--” 

“I’ll see you later, I have business to attend to. Make yourself welcome,” Namjoon spoke hurriedly as they were ushered out his office, though the words weren’t unkind as he ruffled Seungcheol’s hair and promptly closed the door. 

Their former escorter was nowhere to be seen, apparently having more important duties to attend to (or perhaps their staying had been anticipated), which left Mingyu and Seungcheol to be trusted with the elevator and it’s sensual jazz by themselves. 

Mingyu felt an apology on the tip of his tongue, readied and prepared to be delivered until Seungcheol met his worried glance with an earnest smile. “Don’t look so scared. That was quick thinking, and Namjoon hardly admires anything more than wit. The most important thing is that our plan is being set into motion,” 

Mingyu nodded, relief seeping into his system. “Right,” 

Seungcheol leaned down to tie his shoelaces, humming along with the saxophone, the most relaxed Mingyu had seen him in weeks. 

And maybe that was what distracted Mingyu so, maybe that was what kept him from checking what floor they were on--because as the elevator doors opened to allow a middle aged secretary to enter, Mingyu found himself walking forward and stepping out into a carpeted corridor. 

And by the time he registered Seungcheol calling his name, a soft ‘ding’ signalled that the elevator would continue it’s descent without his presence. 

And Mingyu could have simply pressed the button, could have simply waited for another elevator for him to continue his journey down to first level-- but there was a glimpse of someone familiar passing down a corner, one so incredibly unbelievable that Mingyu couldn’t stop himself from moving if he tried. 

He turned the corner, another, and then one more-- before slamming into the sturdy back of someone he hadn’t been anticipating on seeing quite so soon. 

With a scoff and a small, irritated comment, the man with starkly darkened hair and a thin frame turned to face him--only for his annoyance to dissipate to a brief, stunned silence. 

“It’s you! Why are you here?” Mingyu took a few steps backwards, disbelief evident in the way he raked his stare up and down the man’s frame.

Jeon Wonwoo, the man with a signature deepened voice and tired eyes. After their escape, Mingyu hadn’t taken the time to properly converse with him, mortified at the idea of his flirtation having been with someone sent on his friend’s destruction and still terrified for the fate of the one they had left behind. 

Wonwoo’s eyes were just as piercing as Mingyu remembered, the events from the day prior feeling as if they had occurred years ago. “What do you care?” 

Mingyu blinked, wanting nothing more than to avoid Wonwoo’s habit of existential questioning at this time. “Did you follow us?” Mingyu lowered his voice, as if he were whispering about a conspiracy of sorts. Wonwoo took note of this and arched his brow, unimpressed. 

“No, I didn’t. But I find that accusation to fit you more, seeing as you can’t seem to leave me be.” A ghost of a smirk almost fell upon Wonwoo’s features as he scanned Mingyu’s form lazily. 

Mingyu huffed, though he couldn’t seem to calm the rapid beating of his heart against his chest. It was strange, because Mingyu was trained to handle a wide variety of situations, this interaction being far from his worst one--but when it came to Wonwoo, Mingyu acted as though he was a clueless, naive idiot bumbling his way through life. It was frustrating, because Mingyu couldn’t place why, exactly, in two short conversations had this man managed to make him feel so completely out of place?

“Tell me,” Wonwoo drawled lazily, his expression indecipherable. “Would you have preferred if the mask stayed on?” 

Mingyu found that he didn’t quite have the answer to that particular question at this time, because his system seemed to spiralling out of control for no reason other than his own nerves and surprise at the unprecedented encounter. 

“You’re insufferable.” Mingyu shifted, suddenly unsure of where his line of questioning went, suddenly unsure of why his eyes seemed to settling on the way the hall lights illuminated Wonwoo’s frame. 

“You didn’t seem to think that the other night.” Wonwoo quirked a brow in an almost testing manner, his cold demeanor refusing to crack. 

Mingyu could feel the heat gracing his face, could feel that it would be better of him to leave despite the fact that his legs remained rooted and unmoving. “You tried to kill Junhui,” 

Wonwoo leaned against the wall, speaking with a general sense of boredom. “Debatable. He tried to kill me first,”

Mingyu could feel the corners of his lips turning downwards, his stance bordering on defensive. It was uncalled for, and only further proved that Wonwoo’s unexpected presence rattled him-- and maybe that was what the man had been probing for, because his eyes flashed with something Mingyu couldn’t identify as he released a sardonic huff. 

“You’re too easy to read. Try looking less like a lost puppy the next time you get startled,” Wonwoo gave him another brief once over, his eyes trailing over Mingyu as the latter refused to shrink under his gaze-- he could manage to keep his confidence, thanks. 

“You never answered my question.” Mingyu chose to avert the topic of his apparent translucent mannerisms, a problem that had only recently surfaced upon his approaching a mysterious man with an air of arrogance, relishing in isolation, his mask unable to cover his apathy with formalities as he brusquely informed Mingyu that his presence was unwanted. 

“Business, much like you. You aren’t the only ones in danger,” Wonwoo paused, a slight sneer on his face as his words were tainted with a hint of petty venom. “And tell your friends to stop seducing our members. It isn’t very helpful,” 

Mingyu bristled at that, and perhaps he was too used to using tactics of intimidation when frustrated, because he used his (slight) extra height over Wonwoo as he leaned forward. “What are you saying?”

Wonwoo blinked owlishly, and Mingyu honestly couldn’t tell if he was mocking his ignorance of whatever situation he was addressing, or if perhaps Mingyu’s questioning brought upon a genuine sense of curiosity. “You mean they haven’t told you?”  
Mingyu felt dizzy within the proximity, and it only increased at the notion that his friends were hiding something from him. It couldn’t be true, simply because they didn’t operate that way, as Seungcheol had always said--and why would they keep secrets now, when all of their lives were more at stake than ever before? “You’re not going to make me not trust them. I’d trust them with my life, which must be more than you can say for anyone,” 

Mingyu must have struck a nerve, because Wonwoo’s jibes, his expression full of faked innocence-- it all quickly turned sour. “I don’t trust, Mingyu. It’s why I’m alive,” He jabbed a finger into the center of Mingyu’s chest, forceful. “And it’s why you’ll get yourself killed.” 

Unable to prevent himself, Mingyu stumbled back, hoping to retreat back to the first floor. Wonwoo stepped forward into his space, his eyes alight with a cold, icy kind of sadness that sent Mingyu spiralling, gasping for breath as if he were drowning in the depths of it. 

“You don’t know,” Mingyu hated the dwindle of his voice, how it faltered as he was forced to confront what had rested in his thoughts, unsaid, forced back as their dilemmas continued to weigh down upon their shoulders. “You don’t know anything,” 

“You’ve wondered,” Wonwoo lowered his voice, his words stabbing through Mingyu’s chest. “You’ve wondered why we bothered to help. We had nothing to gain,” He continued, his presence suffocating. “But, I’m afraid that not everyone can just keep to themselves.” 

Wonwoo’s whispers tickled his ear, sending a thrill down Mingyu’s spine as his stomach lurched. “Watch yourself, Mingyu. People aren’t as wonderful as you think--not even them,” 

It was a sense of deja vu that engulfed him, that kept Mingyu staying as still as he was as his breath caught in his throat. Wonwoo turned without batting those detached eyes of his, leaving Mingyu to simply observe the way he continued back down the hallway’s dimly lit corridors. 

“I don’t think people are wonderful.” Mingyu found himself protesting, if only to keep himself from feeling as utterly weak as he did. 

Wonwoo didn’t grace him with stopping, at least, not completely-- his pace slowed, and his tone only held a shell of it’s former bitterness. “Your record proceeds you. For a bodyguard, you’ve rarely ever bloodied your hands.” 

Mingyu wasn’t sure why he kept going along with it, why he persistently attempted to force Wonwoo to understand what Mingyu didn’t even understand himself. But truthfully, Mingyu hated killing--hated the idea of killing, of having the power with the slightest fidget to take someone’s ability to think away, to vanquish their thoughts, their words-- no matter what they sought to do, no matter who they chose to be. Mingyu wouldn’t aim to kill unless the situation proved itself to be unavoidable. 

“I don’t want to die, and I’ve done things that I deserve to die for.” Mingyu continued, something stirring uncomfortably inside him. “No one really wants to die,” 

Only then did Wonwoo halt, as if he had been struck by something, as if his limbs had been transformed into stone. 

The moment passed swiftly as Wonwoo continued to face away from him, no more words, no more moments of confusion, as though Wonwoo were speaking to him in a language couldn’t quite comprehend. 

But even if Wonwoo disappeared, his words, befuddling and angering as they may be-- remained. Because even in the chaos of it all, the midst of devastation; there had been a nagging in the back of his mind, a voice that was now too loud to be properly ignored. 

Mingyu had seen Boo Seungkwan before they had all met together in the warehouse, his face familiar in a way that Mingyu concluded was only due to his own delusions, his fear finally interrupting his normal thinking. 

Mingyu hadn’t been present the night it all began; when the casino was reduced to crumbling ashe and darkened smoke. 

But he had been present when seeing Hansol’s frame cross a hurried street on a cloudy afternoon, grinning as he entered a homey coffee shop and sat down with a man Mingyu couldn’t seem to identify. 

Hansol hadn’t been given any tasks of too much importance then, and wasn’t considered an official member of utmost status-- and Mingyu supposed that him having a few acquaintances would allow him to keep his desired act of normalcy alive and thriving. 

As the days increased, so did Hansol’s absences-- he refused to dwindle on missions and important tasks but would be gone for prolonged hours when getting a few groceries, or delivering a package to the post office down the street. 

No names were ever mentioned, and so Mingyu himself never mentioned anything either-- Hansol wasn’t even his blood relative, after all, and if Jisoo hadn’t noted his behavior as anything to be particularly worried about then it was no concern of Mingyu’s, surely. 

But the more Seungkwan’s face remained in his mind, the more things slowly began to piece themselves together in the worst way. 

Seungkwan and Hansol had become arguably close, somehow. 

The Spades had infiltrated their casino and completely levelled it, somehow. 

The Spades had decided to save Hansol and Jisoo for seemingly no reason other than the goodness of their hearts--which was something that Mingyu couldn’t afford to dismiss, despite the trust and regard he held for those he was closest to. 

Maybe it had been under their noses all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back with another chapter :) This was super fun to write, and I'm enjoying progressing the story and the character relationships ^^ keep me company on twitter! @sunnysideshua 
> 
> ((I mainly just retweet things because I'm kinda shy bUT I do tweet sometimes)) 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Criticism and comments are always welcome


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Gore/referenced torture ahead**
> 
> Former relations are strained as Wonwoo questions past motives and events that led him to his current state. Alliances are formed if only from distrust, leading to uneasy tension and unspoken threats. 
> 
> Minghao refuses to truly understand the complexity of the emotions overriding his logic, because surely a single bad decision couldn't cost him everything. 
> 
> Soonyoung survives through the agony, until a prime opportunity presents itself.

Chan could sense the tension flowing freely from Wonwoo’s rigid stance in waves, the usual expression of disinterest replaced with furrowed brows and an unusually soured tone as he scowled. “They’re here,” 

Wonwoo was flipping through their file, his eyes straying over previously memorized information, scanning for a missed detail, a newfound hint. “Jeonghan is in over his head. We couldn’t possibly infiltrate Namjoon if he reconnects with Seungcheol,” The folder was tossed, skidding over a rustic table and falling carelessly onto the floor. 

Chan shot him a pointed look, a silent rebuttal as he continued with his work, his typing growing restless as he checked over security cameras on his one of many monitors, hoping that their program had yet to be discovered before they could retrieve what they required. “Jeonghan knew this would happen, remember? Namjoon is their only chance. He wants to take them both out at the same time,” 

Wonwoo scoffed, lingering out of Chan’s line of vision, the latter growing anxious as he refused to look upwards still. “What Jeonghan wants is becoming unclear to me,” His voice decreased in volume as Wonwoo spoke, a bitter edge to his words. “He hasn’t explained what he and Seungkwan were doing that night. They haven’t given us any reason to trust their motives anymore--” 

“Jeonghan saved our lives,” Chan’s fingers hovered, a nerve struck as he stood to face his comrade with poorly contained frustration. “Without him, there are no motives. There’s nothing,” 

Chan stood, barely managing to refrain from the fight threatening to be provoked. “Jeonghan saw an opportunity. We need allies, we can’t do this without assistance and he knows that,” He scowled, “If we can’t even trust each other then we might as well just be killed already,” 

Wonwoo bristled, his defensive wall slowly crumbling as he resorted to uncrossing his arms, glaring pointedly downwards. He left with a snarl on his features, hardened and ugly, far from the softened neutrality Chan had become accustomed to. He was falling into old habits, ones sustained through fear and insecurity. 

They were finally given a chance to live rather than survive, to benefit those who suffered the same as them. Wonwoo was wary and distrusting by nature, his doubts ruling over what bonds they had managed in the worst of times-- Chan was far too familiar with them, with the icy stares and uncomfortable silence. 

But what frightened Chan the most wasn’t Wonwoo’s questionings of their friends-- it was Chan’s own doubts slowly ensnaring his better judgement, creeping into his thoughts, suffocating-- it was why he accepted their particular mission so readily, a task that separated him, a task that would provide the time needed for Chan to purge his negative thinking. 

Jeonghan was a prime opportunist, changing plans, a master of skillfully dealing with those around him to benefit their ultimate goal-- should the time arise, they could look upon the floor plan Chan was retrieving should Namjoon’s empire ever need to be destroyed. Currently, his camaraderie proved necessary, much like the sudden input of the Blackjacks; having a tolerable relationship within enemy ranks might be their saving grace. 

However, the threat of liability was too much for Chan’s personal taste-- and while Jeonghan’s spontaneity was notorious for favorable outcome, he could only hope that his plans remained focused on the goal ahead, and not whatever distractions lay in front of him. 

Wonwoo returned that night with his usual demeanor, smelling of cigarette smoke and looking ashen, a faint smile tugging on his paled lips. 

Chan grinned as he informed him of their successful retrieval, pausing as he busied himself with examining the hairs that littered Wonwoo’s clothing. “You found cats, didn’t you?” 

Wonwoo blinked, flipping through a magazine with the haste of a guilty man. “Of course not. We’re on a serious assignment to form a partnership with Namjoon, I would never.” He smirked, “Hypothetically, however, If I were to be found by cats, I may have trouble escaping,” 

Chan propped his legs onto the rustic coffee table, fiddling with the hard drive that contained information he hoped wouldn’t be needed. He grinned despite himself, relief filling his system at the reappearance of the ally he had come to know. 

There was a curt knocking at their door, bringing forth a sense of urgency as Wonwoo quickly tossed his hair covered jacket aside, the small ghost of his smile faded entirely as he opened the door with a somber nod. 

Kim Namjoon leaned against the door frame, his posture slackened as he paid no mind to the informal welcome. His lips tugged upwards, “Your proposal is an interesting one,” 

Wonwoo shifted, the slight twitch of his brow portraying his impatience all too well. Chan simply observed with mild worry, knowing that his sudden appearance would make it seem as though he didn’t believe Wonwoo capable of handling their business. Wonwoo pressed lightly, “But?”  
Namjoon grinned, amusement evident in the way he suddenly straightened. “But,” He offered an apologetic look, “My cousin doesn’t seem fond of you, and I personally can’t fault him for that,” He studied his nails, his dark eyes flitting upwards to Wonwoo, the latter waiting with an unfaltering stare. 

Chan could feel nerves clawing at his insides. It was doubtful that Namjoon would trust them, after having been a witness to their crimes plastered upon news outlets, after having been close with none other than Seungcheol, one of few men who could testify the events and the chaos that ensued. 

However, their potential could possibly overcome what liabilities would follow with their partnership-- The Blackjacks were in a vulnerable position after their choices led to unprecedented outcomes, but the damage they had managed to secure was an impressive feat. Not to mention that should Namjoon turn away their proposal, there were plenty of others rival organized crime groups that were overjoyed with the current situation-- their excitement would only grow should they manage a contract with those who had sparked the match that lit the fire. 

Chan studied his expression, the way Namjoon emanated intimidation despite his strangely friendly demeanor, finding that his air of arrogance was far more dangerous than the unspoken threats lingering on his tongue. It was risky for every party involved, but there was a sense of mutiny about, and perhaps their offer (although not great in value) would be just enough to earn Namjoon the position he longed for. 

Namjoon continued after his pause, enjoying the unease he brought with the slightest fidget. “You’ve proved yourselves capable of plenty already, a wise man would shoot you on the spot.” He fiddled with the cuffs of his suit, an action that seemed to be from nerves upon first glance-- but with further inspection, one might find the slightest curve of Namjoon’s grin, his dark eyes outlining a future only possible with risks, the way he presented himself with the stance of a satisfied man who would bargain anything, if only for the chance of having everything. 

Namjoon’s gaze locked with Wonwoo’s like metal against steel, grating against the silence, wearing one another down without reluctance as he slowly parted his lips to utter those final words, the sentence that would seal their fate, decide whether they had truly walked into their deaths. His words were silvery, dripping with the charm of someone brimming with artificial charisma. “Lucky for you, I don’t surround myself wise men.” 

Wonwoo arched a brow, his tensed shoulders relaxing if only a little, the lilt at the end of his words betraying his newfound content, his composure frosting to something chilled rather than frozen. “Oh?” His tone still dripped with disinterest, and Chan found that he was eternally grateful for never being responsible for the business portion of their occupation, doubting that he possessed the will to stare their possible demise in the face and feign complete boredom. “And why is that?” 

Namjoon offered a thin lipped smile, his arms crossing with in a way that could be interpreted as both polite and curtly demanding. “Wise men don’t make for good criminals.” His eyes narrowed pointedly, “Contact whoever your associates. Tell them to be here by noon tomorrow-- I imagine you haven’t planted explosives in the warehouses you’ve given us?” 

“It’d be pointless, seeing as you won’t be going there.” Wonwoo slipped the small folded paper from his breast pocket, revealing messy written coordinates and small annotations, “I assume you’ll kill us should you suspect our betrayal?” 

Namjoon accepted the parchment with ease, “Naturally.” He pocketed the information with far too much casualty, “Enjoy the rest of your evening-- I’ll have some friends stationed outside your door throughout the night. You’ll have escorts in the morning,” 

Wonwoo released a sigh as he retracted himself back into the door frame, “Babysitters?” 

Namjoon turned briskly, calling down the hallway as he eagerly parted. “Just for you-- don’t worry, they don’t bite,” 

As his frame vanished from their sight, the door shut with a heaviness that weighed on their shoulders. Chan inwardly shuddered, wondering if perhaps the flames they played with would scorch them alive. 

“So,” Chan delicately placed the hard drive he had been gripping onto the mantle, small indentations left in palm. “Who’s going to call Jeonghan?” 

 

It truly was a wonder that after all the last minute decisions and reckless endeavors that Yoon Jeonghan was still a breathing man. He was the son of a prostitute, his mother left to fend for herself after a bastard politician abandoned her, allowing her to suffer at the hands of street mongrels and addicts.  
Of course, Jeonghan had grown up far faster than any child ever should-- working in an environment of nightmares and ignorant assumptions on workers and clients alike, ranging from the unfortunate to the wealthy, those who chose and those who simply were. 

It truly was a wonder that after his changing of plans, the lies that fell so easily from his lips, how every action, every choice led them further along despite the chances of their failure increasing by the minute.  
It truly was a wonder that he was currently on his way to work with the very people he sought to destroy, those who enabled cruelty if only so the ground under their feet was lined with stolen gold. 

Jeonghan didn’t enjoy reminiscing-- he found that pondering the past only filled his chest with unease, bringing forth memories of people and places he so longed to forget. The clients he robbed, the expensive watches and earrings he stole if only for spare coin; how he saved it, how he played his cards until he enacted his first of many missions to come, casting doubt into the public on whether these ‘empires’ were truly so invincible. 

Seungcheol’s father betraying his heir was not something Jeonghan had originally anticipated, but it seemed that nothing would stop a man’s greed for power. The Spades were in a place of vulnerability, much like Seungcheol and his closest men themselves, both wanted with pistols pointed at their heads and bullets in their brains. 

And so Jeonghan deliberately saw past the obstacles and endless unwanted outcomes that could befall them, because a possible infiltration wasn’t beyond their skill level; and they were needed if only for Seungcheol to prevent them from unleashing further defamations and sullying what little reputation he has left to maintain. 

There was a brief glimpse of a particular face, gentle eyes and a soothing voice, honey scented and tipsy, sharing wine in a cramped pantry during the night; ruining every long held grudge with singular raspy words and warm smiles.  
Jeonghan pushed it away, because he couldn’t afford the betrayal of those he was closest to, because he could never forgive himself should he not be able to follow through with what had to be done. 

In the end, there was only winning and losing, and those who were in denial fell in between the black and white with closed eyes and silent tongues, whispering words of comfort in the quiet over the deafening truth they so adamantly denied. 

Their night had been sweet like the wine on one another’s scarlett stained lips, but Jeonghan couldn’t afford distractions. 

There was an elbow to his side, harsh and irritating. “Hey. Do you know when we’ll start trying to get Soonie back?” 

Seokmin’s legs were splayed out with little concern for anyone else’s personal space, the sleek car they rode in not being of their ownership seemingly enough for him to find comfort in marking the expensive rugs with the dirt on his shoes if only for the satisfaction. 

Seungkwan sniffed, appearing to have great difficulty with tearing his eyes away from the window, his leg bouncing, his hands jittery. “They’re going to kill us,”  
“To answer your question,” Jeonghan shifted, crossing his legs as he attempted to adjust in a decently comfortable position outside of Seokmin’s unconscious seat hogging. “I assume we’ll talk as soon as Cheollie stops his bitching,” 

Minghao tentatively gave Seungkwan’s head a comforting pat, a gesture that was (albeit a bit awkward) seemingly accepted by the latter. “You’re right. They might kill us,” 

Seungkwan smacked Minghao with a huff and a glare that seemed to be more fueled by despair than anger. 

“But if they do, then they have less resources. They need unfamiliar faces if they plan on busting Jihoon out-- all of their profiles are known,” Minghao was being ever the realist, per usual; providing just enough optimism to force Seungkwan’s pout into pensive lip chewing, his bouncing limbs slowing to an occasional tap. 

They neared Kim Namjoon’s estate with conflicted feelings and mixed doubts, perfectly aware of the possibility of being executed on site and the pointlessness of it all should their journey end with their blood spilled on annoyingly perfectly trimmed grass-- or, the chance that they survive to be reunited with Soonyoung once again, giving them the option of continuing their mission, or perhaps blowing the property into dust should it all go incredibly wrong. 

After all, it would be incredibly negligent of them to forgo the knowledge of manufacturing home made explosives in their line of work. 

The screeching tires and the jostling of their bodies signalled that the driver had halted, the uneasiness thrumming throughout Jeonghan’s system coming to an unavoidable peek as smoothed his hair with his hands and replaced his expression with one of grating smugness-- that always seemed to be enough to get blood boiling. 

Seokmin’s sunglasses were placed onto his nose as he fell into the character he enjoyed playing, his persona seeming to stray the furthest from his character as his lips stretched into a thin line. Minghao squeezed Seungkwan’s shoulder, offering a quick nod before a door was thrown open and a gruff voice commanded their exit. 

They were subject to pat downs, Jeonghan sarcastically winking at his assigned bodyguard as the woman scowled, shoving him forward to begin their trek into the towering mansion that loomed above them. Greek statues littered the gardens, flowers of all shades blooming under the sun’s rays as oak trees towered above a koi pond, leaves and petals scattered about to form a floral walkway of the property. Jeonghan found it to be breathtaking in a completely frustrating way, deciding it to be too beautiful to be found under Blackjack hands. 

The hallways were lined with abstract art pieces and intricate canvases, splashes of color along every wall. It seemed Kim Namjoon considered himself a man of great culture, a thought that brought a scoff to Jeonghan’s lips, which in turn brought a snarl to his escort’s face. Jeonghan covered the action with a cough, finding that hiding his blatant amusement would serve no purpose other than dwindling what little joy he currently had left. 

The elevator was cramped, having been stuffed with the four of them (along with their newfound friends) causing the elevator’s ascension and jazzy music to seem bemusedly unbefitting of the atmosphere. The third level appeared to be where Namjoon conducted his business, their frames being jostled forwards and then tugged down a hallway lined with doors, secretaries and house staff exiting and entering identical doors as they neared the hallway’s end. 

They were ushered inside a room with double doors, a large circular table taking up the vast majority of space as Namjoon sat idly at the head of the table, the Blackjacks and two other familiar faces having been divided into opposing sides. The tension in the air was evident, crude stares and frowns being directed from both parties as more minions scurried towards them to begin another search. 

“Again?” Jeonghan locked eyes with none other than Kim Namjoon himself, his past far too personally offensive for Jeonghan’s taste. 

Kim Namjoon’s eyes were sharp, unforgiving and alight with a keen, dangerous intelligence. “Forgive me. But what with your past, I would have thought you enjoyed it.” His words were light and conversational, making their meaning far more infuriating than if they had been spoken with malice. 

Jeonghan grinned, feeling bitter pettiness curve his lips as his eyes narrowed. “If you wanted a service, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” Jeonghan could feel his chest tightening as he snarled, “Although, I’m sure you’ve had your fun with plenty of whores already,” 

Seungcheol stood suddenly, stopping only upon Namjoon’s hand being raised, signalling for him to remain seated. He leaned back, maintaining his level headed stare. “I never did take part in paid services,” 

“Oh?” Jeonghan licked his lips mockingly, arching a brow as he was roughly led to a seat next to Chan, who surveyed him with poorly contained worry as Jeonghan continued his jibes. “What with your past, I thought you would have enjoyed it,” 

Kim Namjoon, once a proud nephew of Mr.Choi himself, left in charge of sex rings and prostitution houses as only a teenager-- breaking away from the Blackjacks as hardly an adult, staying in solitude as he continued with trades. 

Jeonghan leaned on his palms, “Tell me, how did it feel knowing that you sent your dirty old men to have their way with children younger than you were?” 

“That’s enough.” Seungcheol turned to Namjoon, his indignation evident in the way he couldn’t contain his outburst. “Namjoon, you can’t be serious. We can’t trust them--” 

“Exactly. They’re better where we can see them,” Namjoon replied easily, seemingly unfazed by Seungcheol’s opposition. “If we kill all of our enemies we lose opportunities, Cheol,” 

Jeonghan ignored the pair of eyes that follow his frame, the gaze that begged for his attention, most likely filled with worry and unspoken desires for his immediate departure. There was a variety of looks being cast upon multiple individuals, with disdain and observings alike, both equally unwelcome in the present situation, more so upon the open antagonizing both parties opened with. 

“We can use them to get Jihoon back,” Junhui swivelled around in his chair, the only presence in the room who seemed completely unperturbed with current hostilities, going as far as to shoot Minghao a smirk; the latter replying with nothing beyond a sigh of resigned exasperation. 

“Their help may not be needed now that we’re working with Namjoon’s forces.” Jisoo spoke with a stern, hushed voice, Jeonghan’s gaze falling to his briefly before they both quickly avoided one another’s eyes.

“You need us. They’ll be expecting your retaliation,” Minghao cut in with purpose, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke, glowering upon seeing Junui imitating his actions. 

Hansol shook his head, “They’ll be expecting any retaliation. The Blackjack throne is up for anyone, and now almost everyone is after it-- you helping doesn’t change that,” 

Wonwoo snorted, “I was under the impression you always expected your casinos to come under fire, too, but we blew one up anyway,” his eyes darkened, “Were you expecting that, too?” 

An uncomfortable stillness hung heavy in the air, and past assistance aside, Jeonghan was acutely aware of the complications that would follow with any form of partnership, seeing as mercy and compliance were too very different things. He had acted on sympathy at the banquet, begrudgingly unable to watch a particular face become disfigured as brain matter was blown from his skull. 

However, there had never been any pretense of permanence, nor of partnership, even after the Blackjacks rested under their roof-- wishes for revenge and pure spite unable to dissipate the bitter blood that rested between them.  
Namjoon seemed perplexed, positively level headed despite the exchanging of jabs. Jeonghan had escaped and been labelled as a missing worker soon before Namjoon’s departure from the human services division of the mafia, and due to Jeonghan’s arguable popularity and having been watched since his birth, Namjoon recognizing his face wasn’t all that far fetched. In fact, it must be an annoyance, due to the inconvenience that must have followed upon Jeonghan’s crime, leaving a politician near death as bloodied stains painted the trail of his parting. 

“Seungcheol, you know of my thoughts already.” Namjoon tapped his hand along the smooth table finishing, contemplative. “It would be helpful to finish this as soon as possible so we can begin preparations,” 

Jeonghan could feel the aggression dwindle into mild discomfort, as glares and scoffs turned into hushed murmurs and impatient glances. Jeonghan sat smugly, refusing to allow even a slight slip of his anxieties to peek through his haughty grin. “I’m ready and willing if you are, Cheollie.” 

There was an elongated sigh as Seungcheol stood, somber and steely eyed. “You’ve helped us in the past, you’ve destroyed us in the past. There isn’t much left for you to accomplish,” He approached Jeonghan with a slow stride, aware of how he paused behind every seat, patient and condescending. 

“Is that a challenge?” Jeonghan quirked a brow, refusing to acknowledge the shifting of tides as Seungcheol neared, refusing to understand the fear that spiked his heart rate as his palms broke into a cold sweat. 

“A statement, mostly,” Seungcheol studied Jeonghan through heavy lidded doe eyes, enjoying the process even as Jeonghan’s expressions remained. 

Jeonghan awaited the words, dreaded them with his entire being like nothing before-- what would send them back to drawing boards, what would erase their chances of saving Soonyoung, the sentence that would destroy everything they had worked for, diminish the suffering they had endured if only to kill the empire that allowed it. 

Seungcheol was smirking, a mirror image of a father he resembled in an unsettling way, despite the two being torn apart by political games and their own ambitions. He lowered his voice, Seungcheol’s lips curling as he whispered in mock sadness, “I’m afraid you aren’t needed,” 

The world was spinning, the weight on Jeonghan’s shoulders crushing him as the air in his lungs dissipated into nothing but a bitter laugh. This was where his decisions had left him, exposed and useless, leaving him nothing but the disappointment of his friends who had trusted him, and the agony of knowing that maybe they had been doomed from the start. Jeonghan found himself surveying the room briefly, watching how Jisoo had inhaled sharply, his eyes locked onto his lap as he fiddled with his hands. 

“I think you’re forgetting something, Cheol.” Namjoon interjected with a slightly chiding tone, a hint of a grin gracing his lips, “You’re in my house, remember?” 

There was a glimmer of hope in Jeonghan’s chest, faint, his forced snarkiness falling flat as he exhaled shakily. 

“And in my house,” Namjoon’s words were drawn out, painfully, carefully, the room on the verge of collapse with every small enunciation. “I make the final decision,” 

Seungcheol and Jeonghan shared the same genuine astonishment, one from pure elation, the other from the shocking revelation that his cousin had arranged an entire meeting if only to agree to the Spades’ proposal. 

“And so, the Spades will be welcomed so long as they are accompanied by either one of my men or Seungcheol’s at all times,” Namjoon stood, striding confidently across the room and appearing in front of the large oak doors as he continued, “Anyone suspected of betrayal will be shot.” He met Jeonghan’s eyes as he opened the doors himself, his thoughts indecipherable as he made an exit. 

Seungcheol was rigid, an impossible amount of emotion creasing his brows together as he simply examined the place where his cousin had stood moments before, rigid and disbelieving. 

Jeonghan bathed in the feeling of pure euphoria, even greater than the satisfaction of watching the casino blown into dust, because at least here he could watch the sheer unadulterated conflict on Seungcheol’s face in person. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Cheollie--I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it,” With a wink and a skip in his step, Jeonghan happily left the conference with newfound jubilation. Because in that moment, his victory had been personal. 

 

Minghao was faced with a conflicting amount of emotions that he was unsure how to handle. 

Their ultimate goal was laid before them, made easier to achieve by their newfound closeness with the Blackjacks themselves-- however, constantly being surrounded by those whose livelihoods you had destroyed made for a decent amount of uneasiness for everyone involved. Not to mention that the longer they spent as accomplices, the harder it would be for Minghao to dehumanize them for when a day came that betrayal would be a necessity. They were on the opposing sides of crime, all victims in their own right, and yet there they were, hellbent on the ultimate destruction of the other. Despite their temporary civility, the moment the tide would change the tricks and plots would begin again, the sun would set and the night’s darkness would shroud what lies they had told if only for self salvation. 

And for those reasons, Minghao had found himself scurrying out of the conference room without so much as a glance at anyone-- once Soonyoung was recovered, it was likely that Namjoon and Seungcheol were already planning their executions, and so their escape would have to be swift and ready to be carried out, and in order for that to occur without incident no attachments could be made. 

There was an arm that had slung itself across his shoulder. “Hi,” 

Minghao tried in vain to shrug him off, but Junhui stubbornly remained as he steered them both around and through various groups of people, earning looks of exasperation and annoyance from his allies and foes alike. “So, where to?” 

“Nowhere.” Minghao flatly declined whatever offer was verging on being spoken, wishing for his spiteful demeanor to be enough to force the irritatingly touchy man to leave him be. 

“Well we’re all going somewhere. Especially us, since you’re not allowed to be alone.” Junhui grinned at him slyly, “Unless you’d rather be in your room all day,” 

“We should be planning on getting our friends back.” The words tumbled from his mouth without Minghao’s permission, finding that his guard was lowered too easily when the man he was speaking to was both too open and constantly unreadable. 

Junhui hummed at that, “Let the aggression settle first-- in the meantime, we can make plans of our own.” It could be the way that Junhui expressed his thoughts openly that disarmed Minghao, perhaps it unfiltered honesty was refreshing in a world of secrecy and whispers. It was relieving in an irksome way, because his constantly amused demeanor was resentful, if only because Minghao was growing accustomed to it.

He sighed, choosing to avoid provoking any kind of scene should he refuse to comply with Junhui, the latter leading him down twisting halls and spiralling staircases. “Like what? You do realize that you only fought Wonwoo a couple days ago?” 

Junhui continued leading him without pause, his grin refusing to pull downwards. “Your point being?” 

“We’re not friends.” Minghao shifted in discomfort, “Once this is over, it’ll go back to the way it was before--”  
“Says who?” Junhui’s hand slipped around Minghao’s wrist, his features growing serious if only for a moment. “You expect the worst, but it could just as easily be better.” He leaned against a sunlit railing, the rays casting dapples onto his tanned skin. It brought forth the memory of a silvery moon above them as they spoke of nothing upon a silent roof, escaping chaos if only for a brief time. Minghao had chosen to forgo it all, pretending that his resolve hadn’t dwindled, wishing that he could still feel that same notion that it was all or nothing. 

“Seungcheol wants reform. You want to kill an empire-- those things could, hypothetically, of course-- overlap,” Junhui studied Minghao’s expression, silently prying in a way that made him squirm. 

It rattled him, the way Junhui could be so flippantly dismissive, the way he could just as easily become thin lipped and somber looking, staring through Minghao as if he could read every doubt that flickered across his mind. “That’s too idealistic. It’s not that simple,” His words were gentle, surprisingly so, lacking the indignation he expected. 

Abruptly, Junhui resumed his firm tugging-- not entirely insistent, but enough to guide Minghao forward as they passed room upon room, straying further from their meeting point until Junhui halted in front of the first monochrome decorated room throughout the mansion, greek statues and simplistic paintings strewn about with golden trim and shining frames. 

Minghao enjoyed it, the cleanliness-- the smooth sculptures and acrylic canvases making him feel as if he were viewing a gallery, something that couldn’t be very well enjoyed when most of your time was spent running from authorities and spying on the unsuspecting. 

“The simplest things in life are by far the most enjoyable.” Junhui peered at him with wide eyes, speckles of amber visible in his iris, previously unnoticed. They were close, closer than they should be, closer than what Minghao promised himself. Unspoken walls, unmentioned barriers stood rigidly between them, he had never suspected that anyone would simply evade them if only for their own desires. 

Or perhaps it was less than that, and the walls Minghao put so rigidly into place weren’t seen by Junhui at all, and the only thing that came between friendship and hatred was friendship and hatred itself. He remembered how Junhui spoke of only attesting him for the dilemmas he had caused Seungcheol, himself speaking of no true bad blood as he pursued Minghao with strange quips and open amusement. 

Minghao had never suspected that Junhui had bothered him so not for annoyance or for strange mind games, but simply because it was what fitted him best at the time. 

It was the revelation of his simplicity that Minghao found to be so complicated, because how he managed to be so without care while working as a hitman for hire was incomprehensible. 

“Namjoon could have easily put more into it, but it looks better with less. Sometimes less is more,” Junhui’s cryptic words fell upon Minghao as he observed openly, both reminding the other of something neither could place in a way that was mildly unsettling at best and slightly endearing at worst. 

“Junhui,” Minghao was breathless and conflicted, feeling confused and enlightened but overwhelmed above it all. “What are you trying to say?” 

“You know, you were the first to ever beat me.” Junhui completely averted the question, slowly examining every portrait as he caressed them with nimble fingers. “I should have been upset, but I wasn’t. I was excited,”

Minghao didn’t reply, unsure of what point Junhui was attempting to convey. He hesitantly approached, his eyes straying to the abstract pieces littered about, eventually settling upon the winged statue that elegantly in the room’s center. “Why?” 

Junhui smiled a familiar smile, his teeth flashing white as he cheekily left Minghao’s side once again, provoking Minghao to be the pursuer, always standing on the verge of being just within reach. “You were exciting. I was used to handling old men whose wives paid for me to kill them-- it was easy,” 

“I enjoyed the chase. Of course I didn’t like your friends very much, but the whole ordeal was interesting.” Junhui glanced at Minghao from behind the curvature of his darkened eyelashes, “And after Jihoon was captured I realized something,” 

Minghao finally met him, their gazes catching while standing on opposite sides of textured marble, their fingertips just barely brushing as Minghao became ensnared in in whatever trap had been set, too enraptured by Junhui’s words and the question still hanging heavily in the air. 

“We’re all criminals guilty of the same crimes, directing our wrongs and rights at whoever we deem fit. None of us are innocent,” Junhui was gentle in the way he laced their fingers, his touch feather light as he searched Minghao’s expression, “So who are we fighting, really?” He inched his way around, hovering just behind Minghao’s frame, his breath tickling Minghao’s ear as he whispered, “Each other’s crimes?” He slipped a small paper into Minghao’s breast pocket, heat spreading across his face and nerves rattling his insides as Minghao exhaled shakily. 

“Or the shame of our own?”  
Minghao’s inhale was sharp, the warmth behind him dissipating as footfalls signalled his departure, leaving Minghao’s mental state in shambles as he tried in vain to calm to the racing beat of his heart. He fingered the parchment warily, examining the wrinkled scribble with subdued hesitation. 

Despite Junhui’s sudden relay of his scattered philosophy, Minghao couldn’t succumb to the naivety of carrying out actions with crucial consequences. And yet there was something inside of him uncurling, resisting his urge to fight the pull of curiosity that tugged him forward still. 

Minghao didn’t believe that life was simple. 

But there were only two options laying ahead of him, and only one presented itself rationally. 

He sighed, readying himself for what would surely follow as a result of his recklessness.

For the first time in a long time, Minghao rejected rationality without regret. 

 

The throbbing was a constant, dried blood caking his skin and clothes as he breathed raggedly, a sharpness panging his chest with every sharp inhale as a result of the merciless kicking, blues and violets kissing his paled, sickly colored skin. His vision was blurred, his thoughts hazy with soft, unclear edges. It was bordering on days now, it was the only fact he could constantly recall, his sudden analysis of numerical crunchings and the minutes that passed being the only task that reminded him what it was all worth. 

The cloth covered his face as water poured into lungs, burning his insides as he choked, jolting against his restraints as the suffocating halted briefly before continuing. They mocked him, degraded him as they openly sneered at his gagging. He desired nothing but sleep, longed for a release of anything other than the misery, than the painful tauntings as they tore his flesh again and again, marking his skin as their own as scarlett drops pooled at his feet. 

It left him trembling, quivering against his constrictions as the soaked rag was tossed across the room. They rattled his chair with jerky movements as they threw accusatory questions, ‘Where is he? How long have you been working with Choi Seungcheol?’, coupled with the terror of being forced to watch as Jihoon was pained and beaten before his own torment resumed. They assumed them to be accomplices, bound together by a plot that aimed humiliate Mr.Choi and present Seungcheol as the new head of the Blackjacks. It was raucous, depriving and numbing, his screams of defiance reduced to grimaces against the rawness of his throat. 

The door was slammed and he allowed his head to loll, gasping for breath, animalistic wishes for his pulse to give out if only for the agony to be forgotten sending tears of frustration down his dirtied, swollen face. 

“Soonyoung,” It was whispered, raspy and weak, forlorn and lost. Jihoon mirrored his unfortunate state, spared slightly if only for his lack of past crimes against those who Soonyoung had angered. 

Their saving grace was stored away in the depths of Soonyoung’s pocket, his bound fingers unable to reach the device that would allow them to be located. He could feel the tightened restraints beginning to fray, the fabric stretching against the strain of wrists behind him. He blinked blearily, “Fuck. I can’t--I can’t feel anything,” 

Soonyoung regretted his former naivety, the desperation that led him to becoming affiliated with the likes of human scum. And perhaps he deserved that pain for his past crimes, perhaps it was all but an act of cruel atonement.

But if this was the justice for the blood on his hands, then Soonyoung could only hope that his tormentors would face fates worse than death. 

He strained, with every trembling, gasping breath he took, he struggled. 

And then he felt it. 

The release of tension from his wrists, the freeing sensation of his aching muscles spasming from being moved after days of constant stagnation. Soonyoung stared down at the pathetic state of his hands, numb from rope burns, quivering with weakness. 

And in his state of near death and exhaustion, Soonyoung smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update has been so delayed, and I'd like to thank you guys for sticking with this story! Real life events kept me busy, but this story is definitely not abandoned! On another positive note, the fantasy au I've mentioned briefly is almost done, and I should be posting that monster of a fic as soon as I can :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and critiques are super appreciated ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shame of it all is always the worst part. 
> 
> Alternatively, guilt is both a vice and a virtue, because regret is a path to change if only you can forget the past. 
> 
> But many can’t.

There was a nervous edge with every word spoken and with every glance exchanged, regardless of intent, no matter the person. 

Hansol had been forced to drown in the silence of his mistake, the action that had cost them everything. The choice that led to Jihoon’s kidnapping and the fall of an empire, the destruction of Choi Seungcheol’s pride, the degrading of their dignity. 

It had all begun with him and his stupidity, his too trusting nature, his utter inability to find any vindictive desire residing within him despite being led astray. Seungkwan was no worse than Hansol himself, both clowns to causes that benefit only themselves, both living with regrets that can never be changed, both far too attached to truly despise the other in their oppositions. 

Hansol was verging on falling, falling into a pool of sorrows and self blame that he simply couldn’t afford. Jisoo had been quick to notice his sulking, even quicker in his reassurances that Hansol was blameless; that Seungcheol’s current position in challenging his father may very well prove to be an asset. 

Hansol wondered if his cousin’s fond stare would warp into hurt disbelief if the truth ever surfaced, wondered if he would advocate for Hansol’s removal-- feared that he would be cast away to the place he once resided, across the seas, once again nothing but a child with no purpose, and no reason for simply being. 

Hansol blinked at the presence before him, a face achingly familiar twisted with poorly shrouded uncertainty. 

Mingyu offered a pensive grin, hiding his stress behind a goofy smile and a brief nod. Hansol could feel the dread swelling, if not for the slight glimmer of apprehension within his friend’s gaze; and that was all it took for him to realize that it was all over, now. 

“Hey. Can I come in?” Mingyu peeked around Hansol’s shoulder, anxious as he surveyed the space that was currently Hansol’s own-- Namjoon had requested for individual rooms, if only to prevent any kind of plotting for prolonged periods of time. There was an armed man leaning to the right of the doorway, staring ahead at the wall in front of him as he had been for hours on end; apparently having no inquiries as he stubbornly refused to acknowledge either of their presences. 

Hansol longed for nothing more than an excuse to refuse his entry, to prevent what was shortly going to be revealed, to grasp this life he had obtained for just a bit longer. 

It was all falling beneath his feet, just as he deserved. 

Hansol moved aside, offering a small grin despite his inward shakiness. “Yeah, of course. What’s up?” And Hansol already knew, from the averted stares and slight fidgets, from the painful inhales and small glances of wounded confusion. 

It had truly only been a matter of time before Hansol was laid bare and exposed in front of those he loved, the truth painted in harrowing colors as his naive, misplaced trust would be unmasked for their undoing.   
It was truly almost laughable. 

Mingyu itched his neck, straightening slightly. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” His voice was lowered, his doubtful tone sending a throb throughout Hansol’s chest.

“Right. Yeah,” Hansol lowered himself onto the loveseat adjoining the sofa Mingyu had placed himself onto far too delicately, refusing to relax into the inviting cushions as his gaze continued to travel the length of the room. “Is something wrong?” 

Mingyu’s distress unnerved Hansol greatly. It was the kind of panic that waited below the surface before breaking through, the kind of delayed realization that put everything into place while it tore you apart. The knowledge that could have been known all along if he had allowed himself to dive deep enough, because the best secrets are the ones you keep from yourself. 

Mingyu hesitated, the action piercing through what little fight Hansol had left. “I don’t know,” He was earnest in his confusion, his doubt, “I need to ask you something,” 

This would be the end of an era Hansol never truly deserved, a life that he never belonged in. His friends, his cousin-- they would all hold a reserved space in his heart, even as they sent him away, even as they revoked him of every wonderful gift and accomodation, even as they glared at him with bitter betrayal and open loathing. 

Could he deny it, this punishment? Could he stare into the eyes of his friend broken due to his selfish actions, his ignorance? 

Hansol wasn’t sure, yet. The atmosphere was thick and heavy and there was cotton in his mouth that dried his throat, his heart was pounding and suddenly Hansol couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his head as he was witness to his own devastation. “Of course,” 

“Did you let the Spades into the casino that night?” 

Hansol could feel himself slipping, a downwards spiral of regret and panic enveloping him as he sat with an open mouth, as he fought against the sheer emotion that tugged him backwards, tried in vain to ignore the grinding of his teeth, the thoughts screaming throughout his head as he lost everything in a single sentence. 

“Mingyu, I--” 

The door was opened easily, a small creak startling both parties as Hansol looked toward the door with wide eyes alight with vulnerability. 

Jisoo stood with a small smile, happily closing the door behind him as he breezily placed himself beside his cousin, whose fingers trembled delicately in his lap. “Mingyu, nice to see you. How are you doing, would you like some tea?” 

Mingyu flitted between them both, taken aback by Jisoo’s sudden intrusive appearance, evidently unable to completely shake his misgivings as he offered Hansol a brief, stricken glance. “No, thank you,” He stood, his gangly limbs tense as he returned to the cursed door frame that seemed to being nothing but suffering and stress. “I’ll see you later, Hansol,” 

Hansol knew that he would held accountable to those words as Mingyu left with a halfhearted wave and a rueful glare towards the carpeted flooring, making haste of his exit as ran troubled fingers through dark, matted hair. 

Hansol swallowed against the dryness of his throat as he allowed himself to breathe, unable to prevent the gasps that fluttered past his lips, white knuckled fingers digging into the palms of his hand. Jisoo brushed his hair out of his face, running soothing circles down the small of his back as he sighed, “Promise me that you’ll deny it,” 

Hansol’s stomach lurched as he flinched, “I don’t--” 

“You do,” Jisoo whispered, leaning back to gaze at his cousin with knowing eyes. “You do, Hansol. It’s okay; you made a mistake-- but they can’t know,” 

“You-- no, Jisoo--” Hansol choked back the hot tears that threatened to spill, recoiling away from his cousin’s familiar, gentle hands. 

“Hush,” Jisoo attempted to pull him closer, but Hansol retreated, horror biting at his insides. Jisoo continued, “I figured it out, Sol. But you’re not the only one with secrets, alright?” Despite his gentle cooings, despite his tender words, Hansol couldn’t accept it. 

Jisoo knew of his insolence, was well aware of the guilt that proceeded Hansol in light of the building that was now nothing but dust and metal, continued as if it was all the same even as their world crumbled with that very casino, unaware of the consequences that would follow such a seemingly inconsequential friendship. 

It was dizzying, it was relieving and terrifying, and it sent shame hidden in the depths of Hansol’s core come flowing out through the quiver of his lips and the redness of his eyes. 

He couldn’t have kept it away forever. 

 

Jisoo couldn’t place the exact time in which the realization had come-- sometime in between the travesty that was the Black Lotus Banquet and his own indulgences with one Yoon Jeonghan, surely-- but he found that Hansol’s mistake would be one that would haunt him, looming behind every darkened corner and crevice of his mind for him to revisit in the despairs of life’s wrongdoings. 

In between the whispers and daunting peeks at one another lay a friendship founded on betrayal and parted by true, raw emotion, clawing at Seungkwan’s insides for the job he completed too successfully for his liking; and the shame of someone who had just wanted to experience the world that had turned against him for the last time, even as Jisoo guarded him with every misleading word and feigned naivety. 

Jisoo had put the pieces into the place and the picture was shattering, because he simply couldn’t shield Hansol from the choices long made, from the impact of broken trust that would lay at his feet. 

But Jisoo, in all of his years of perfecting the art of docile deception; was able to recognize the signals of discomfort, the pleadings that lay in between the pause and sighs; the brief intake of shallow breaths as attempts of placation slowly rotted your insides. 

Jisoo, in all his years of perfecting the art of docile deception, was able to keenly read the lies with the circumstances that had laid themselves out for his pondering. After all, it could be no coincidence that Seungkwan had followed in Jeonghan’s stead before an arguably overdue slaughter on Jisoo’s behalf. 

If Mingyu had discovered the secret that would tear them apart, then he was running out of options. There were only so many distractions that would buy him the time of day, only so many diversions that would settle worries and doubts into the depths of a busy man’s mind. 

The Blackjacks and Spades, once reunited with their respective allies, would be nothing more than enemies with careful eyes and uncomfortable proximity. They would be reduced to their former pettiness and cold glares; because resentment boiled into unease, and distrust among an opponent never truly wavered. 

Mingyu wasn’t at fault for his loyalty-- it was a shared fact needless of being spoken, their willingness to set themselves aside for the benefit of Choi Seungcheol’s rulings. Their friendships complicated things further, weaved a web of sorry punishments and unspoken expectations; but more than that, they whispered words of never betraying one another. 

With their families long forgotten in their illegal workings, it would seem that the Blackjacks were all any of them had left. 

But Jisoo couldn’t allow Hansol to fall at the ends of poverty and unyielding struggle once again. Not after he had promised him a sanctuary earned with work and secrecy, not after he developed a bond that could surpass his own sense of self preservation. 

If Mingyu willed for the devastating truth to be put on display for the world to gawk at with enraged bitterness, then Jisoo only had a single card left for his using, one he had hoped to keep buried away under his own filthy deceptions. 

Hansol’s actions would be shocking; painful-- forcing Seungcheol’s hand forward, giving no other generous deed as his cousin would be exiled if only for his own desire for companionship after a life of nothing but survival. 

Hansol’s actions would be shocking. But Jisoo, his inner workings with Seungcheol’s father, his embezzlement of funds, the sides he played out of duty and out of respect-- 

The ground beneath their feet had already crumbled, but the revelation would send them falling into the world’s very core, reduced to firey ashes and consumed by the hotness of grief, drowning in a scorching mess of hurt and fury. 

The thought brought a tightness to Jisoo’s chest, his insides twisting, an invisible noose crafted from the papers and lies he had spun coiling around his neck as he readied himself to step forward, to allow the air to leave his lungs as he gasped in the aftermath of the punishment he had deserved for so, so long as he choked on what was crafted by his own hands. 

Jisoo found that his feet carried him before his thoughts did, found that his knuckles were raised and poised for impact upon sturdy, polished wood before he could register the movement. There was a man armed to his left, offering a brief look of skepticism; his composure unyielding as his stance remained in its rigidity. 

Upon the meeting of his hands upon the smoothened, glossy surface, the door opened-- greeting Jisoo with an unimpressed sigh and heavy reluctance as Jeonghan studied his nails. “Shua,” 

Jisoo felt a twinge in his stomach, dejection forcing his words into a brief, stunned quiet that brought a painful dryness to his throat. Whether Jeonghan was putting on an image for his own namesake in the presence of Namjoon’s worker or if he was resentful towards Jisoo for not advocating his stay was indecipherable, and despite the unspoken agreement that their one night of leisure couldn’t be repeated; it seemed that Jisoo always ended up pursuing what he knew could never be. It was painful, his hand outstretched, grasping for what was just out of reach. 

But Jisoo wasn’t divulging in his sorrows for his own gain. He had a proposal, a plan forming through the turning gears in his head behind the racing of his thoughts and the stuttering of his heart in his chest. 

“I’m here on business-- Seungcheol’s orders,” Jisoo’s stare was unwavering as he outlined the delicate features that obscured his logic, as his eyes pleaded for acknowledgement in the most pathetic of ways. He continued, “If you would be so kind as to let me in, that is,” The comment was teasing in nature, lacking in the bite that he wished it possessed. His words were brimming with mirth, and the steady rhythm of his doubts slowly began to dwindle-- as they often did, if only in a single presence. 

Sharp eyes with softened edges finally graced him, a fleeting flicker of something brimming with complexity in Jeonghan’s expression as he breathed, slow and calculating, a passing image of his vulnerable inner workings as he regarded Jisoo with an open, honest gaze. It flitted back as soon as it had surfaced, an annoyed snort meeting his ears. “I hope Cheollie is capable of doing his own dirty work.” And Jisoo knew that he couldn’t relay his relief of simply hearing that voice to soothe his ears, knew that he couldn’t allow his growing fondness to slip past his defenses too easily. 

They had a game to be played, subtleties and messages conveyed through minute details-- it was how one studied the other, how Jeonghan’s shoulders eased despite the mocking irritation he displayed so effortlessly. 

Jisoo was unsure of just when, exactly, he had become so dangerously enamored. 

With a few snide remarks and feigned spite, Jeonghan parted out of Jisoo’s path with unfair grace, concern hidden behind a sly grin as the door granted them privacy against the turmoil that was their current relations and intermingling motives. 

“Jisoo,” It was a bittersweet murmur, Jeonghan offering unfaltering attention despite his evident worries, despite his hesitancy to get too close. He chewed his bottom lip, easing himself onto a velvet chair as he peered up, thoughtful behind the lashes that fluttered against his cheek. 

And Jisoo could already feel apologies forming on the tip of his tongue, spilling out through his lips as he wrestled with emotions he wasn’t capable of identifying. He was apologetic in his effort of speaking out against Jeonghan’s stay-- mainly because of the danger and unnerving possibilities of the Spades’ individual murders, as well as the chance that his growing fondness would become too difficult to hide, even under his own denial. 

Jeonghan waved off his worries, dubious. “Jisoo, I’m well aware that it isn’t in your best interests for us to be here. It may not be in our best interests, either-- only time will tell.” The corners of his lips curved, and Jisoo felt pinned under his knowing, watchful eye. 

And then Jisoo began to overflow, his fears and anxieties tumbling forth with clumsy, scatterbrained explanations of the events that led him to the request he was dancing around. He loved Hansol, and he couldn’t sit idly by while his world was destroyed. They could easily spin the truth, intermingling it with lies if only for the sake of his remaining family. 

Jeonghan possessed the ability to expose Jisoo for what he had done, for what he had always been-- a lying, deceitful coward. And should he share these details so openly, reveal the notion that Jisoo had been blackmailed by the Spades so willingly; then surely one idea would connect to another.

Jisoo was the perfect scapegoat, a penance for crimes committed, a punishment for the one horrible thing that wasn’t his doing. 

Jeonghan was immediate in his response. “I won’t do that to you.” 

“Why not?” 

“Hansol is perfectly capable of handling himself.” Jeonghan examined Jisoo with open scrutiny, the action being performed out of his affections not being enough to soothe Jisoo’s desperation in the slightest. 

“There isn’t another way,” Jisoo could feel his breathing growing uneven, could feel his thoughts thrashing about erratically in the depths of his mind. 

“You don’t deserve it.” Jeonghan approached him slowly, alleviating the tension that suffocated him if only with a small brushing of their hands. 

He wouldn’t allow Hansol to become the one to blame for it all. He couldn’t, and he would put all of his sins on full display himself if need be; and Jisoo never found the will the draw away from Jeonghan’s touch as he promptly informed him as such. 

“The others know the truth about what happened. They’ll want to know why I’m helping you, and I can’t lose their trust.” There was a small frown upon Jeonghan’s features as he shook his head, “They’ll want something in return. Information,” 

If he were to repent for Hansol’s crime with more crimes of his own, if it were the only way for him to keep living happy, healthily-- then he would. He would do it so readily that his own lack of loyalty was startling, alarming Jisoo in ways he would have never imagined. 

Perhaps he truly was a monster. 

His mind was a jumbled mess of emotions and Jisoo wanted nothing more than to scream. 

“I can do that,” He rasped, weak, the vulnerable, dirt ridden boy he had tried so hard to scrub away enveloping him in full as Jisoo realized that no matter how much he ran, he could never escape. 

Jeonghan’s fingers coaxed through soft strands of tousled hair, his voice laced with concern as he implored Jisoo, informing him all too many times that there would be no recovery from this. 

And Jisoo could feel the shame eating away at his insides, sending what little pride left spiralling. 

But there was no regret, no remorse in the way he sighed into the silence with a heavy heart and a disorderly mind. 

And perhaps those fancy suited men had seen his potential, had seen the selfish, deceptive nothing that he was lurking just below the surface. 

And perhaps that was why no matter how hard Jisoo tried, he could never deny the secrets he lived and the painful lies so easily told. 

 

Even after facing off with the chances of death time and time again, the thrills never seemed to shake the original novelty that had tethered Junhui to a life of danger and blood, relinquishing any chance of recovering from his unfortunate childhood circumstances and going forth into the normal world. 

He craved excitement, longed for adrenaline to course throughout his veins as Junhui ended yet another political pawn with the slightest fidget of his finger. The spontaneity was a distraction; it led his mind in all directions of common disarray and disorder, leaving him breathless and trembling in the aftermath. 

It was always the aftermath that left Junhui with a thrumming silence-- the quiet left space for unwanted memories, left too many empty crevices in a heart long frozen and stored away. 

Junhui had never considered anything other than the companionship of those he trusted, had never truly pondered a world outside of gunshot residue and calculated killings. 

And yet there he sat, swinging his legs over the leering edge of a dimly lit rooftop, peering down at the concrete and scattered flowers dancing on a moving breeze. If he leaned forward, then perhaps the world would spin, and his mangled corpse would land in a broken heap of a life lived only for the chase. 

He was always chasing, pursuing something just out of grasp, hand outstretched for a feeling of completion. 

Of all the people Junhui could have found himself pining after, it should have never been him. 

It had never been serious-- suggestive comments and attempted flirtatious exchanges were just part of the game he played so willingly, one that left him winning and losing all at once. But then the amusement came with a strange lack of drive, an unfamiliar desire to avoid what wasn’t purely needed. 

Junhui would kill if he had to, as he always had. 

But for the first time, he was unsettled by it. 

“Hey,” There was a figure behind him, the crinkling of the note he gifted greeting his ears as his company eyed Junhui nervously. “You’ll fall, you know,” 

Junhui hummed, making a show of leaning forward if only to hear a faint hitch of breath, if only to smile at the small sigh that escaped when he returned to his original position. “For you, maybe,” he could feel the corners of his lips lifting, “But if I do?” 

“Then I’ll be pissed.” The8 scoffed, “You would have made me come up here for nothing,” 

Junhui snorted, standing swiftly to face an unimpressed glare. “Not nothing,” He stalked languidly to the other side of the roof top’s edge, balancing upon beams that certainly weren’t built for this, “I would have never gotten to see you look so concerned,” 

There was a sudden pressure along his forearm as Junhui was tugged ungraciously forward, stumbling onto the safety of a sturdy flooring as The8 offered him a look of utter exasperation, however aggrieved it may be. “Your carelessness is astounding,” 

“Thank you,” 

“It wasn’t a compliment.” The8 surveyed his expression, searching. He chewed the inside of his cheek, his grip on Junhui’s skin loosening as his arm fell to his side. It was a look of perplexity, the kind of look you might give a puzzle when nothing seems to fit together. 

There were a few beats of simply watching, of Junhui observing the curves and edges that flit throughout a face in a mere matter of seconds, the crease in between The8’s brows slowly uncoiling itself, easing into smoothened skin, leaving lines that would most likely return. 

“Why are we here, Junhui?” 

It lacked in bite, it was free of any animosity or pointed unhappiness, but it contained a strange fragility that Junhui would have never previously associated with the man standing before him. 

Junhui blinked, “I invited you, remember?” He gestured to the note The8 held with white knuckles, the paper being compacted further under a worried clench. 

“You know what I mean.” He shifted on his feet, directing his gaze pointedly away from Junhui’s unflinching stare. “We could never be close; things could change too quickly--” 

“Why are you always so focused on the future?” Junhui leaned forward, if only slightly, probing the eyes that refused to meet his. “Why is it so much more important than what’s happening now?” He continued, his hand straying to The8’s wrist, his fingers light. “The future is what we make it. This is now, and it won’t last forever.” 

And then the coldness of his demeanor began to thaw, tousled hair being swept in an idle evening breeze as those wide eyes glanced up to meet Junhui’s at last. And in the silvery undertone of stars and midnight skies, Junhui was reminded of a faint memory from a past long buried but never forgotten. 

Youthful faces and kind smiles filled his vision, bleary, muddy from years of neglect-- until the moment passed with a fleeting blink, and then Junhui was reminded of the glossy orbs reflecting starlight back at him with a simple exhale. 

“Minghao.” A small laugh escaped through parted lips, “Please stop calling me ‘The8’, I can’t take you seriously,” 

Junhui raised his eyebrows, “I was under the impression you took everything seriously,”   
Minghao shoved him lightly, attempting to frown despite the smile that sat begrudgingly on his profile. 

“I was right before. This was a waste of my time.” 

Junhui arched a teasing brow, a playful lilt to his words as he observed Minghao with wide eyes. “And why is that?” 

Minghao regarded Junhui with a small smile, gazing with a strange kind of melancholy that left Junhui feeling as though the air from his lungs had dissipated into the soft intensity of a genuine stare. 

“I still can’t figure you out.” 

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps drew Junhui’s attention away from any sort of reply as the fragile atmosphere they had created was shattered with the sound of a door being crashed into the wall, both men practically jumping out of their skin as two familiar faces graced their presence with poorly contained urgency. 

Jisoo was flanked by one Yoon Jeonghan, pants leaving parted lips as three words reignited the flame of determination that could never seem to be deterred deep within Junhui’s chest. 

“We found them,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter long overdue. I’ve been preparing for a school trip abroad with my school’s band which involved a lot of music memorizing; and then finals and end of year testing came up. 
> 
> I leave for my trip this Tuesday, but once I get back I’ll have more time than ever to write! I’m sorry again for how delayed this update has been. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! This chapter is more of a calm before the storm type of read ;) not much action, but it’s needed. 
> 
> As always, comments and criticisms are always welcome and appreciated ♡


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mentions of past suicidal thoughts and actions// descriptions of pain**
> 
>  
> 
> Seokmin realizes the truth behind humanity.
> 
> Jeonghan is finished with waiting, and supposes that his petty teasings may be part of the solution a friend is looking for as he works with an eccentric killer. 
> 
> Seungkwan ponders the ghosts of his past. 
> 
> Wonwoo discovers that any building can crumble.

Seokmin could feel the thumping of his heart against his chest, forcing his breath to succumb to short pants and painful inhales. Chan tugged on his sleeve, eager, his brows knitted in poorly contained urgency as they continued taking the stairs two at a time until they arrived outside of those polished doors they had come to know too well. 

With a pointed exhale and a shaky hand, Chan entered the room with Seokmin in tow, exposing a tense hush and an unsteady exchange of insults and planning. 

“We know where they are.” Seungcheol tapped his fingers along on the smoothened surface, his leg bouncing with nerves, his volume wavering as he fought against his temper. “Why should we wait?” 

“This could be a set up. If your father discovered the device then he could have activated it, we need more information.” Namjoon basked in all of his steely eyed glory, his gaze dark and cold as he examined restless squirms and scoffs without hesitation. 

Junhui fiddled, spinning a pen throughout his fingers with wide eyes. “Send me in. I’ll get the information we need,” He leaned forward on his palms, “You have no one better,” 

“Doubtful.” Jeonghan stood, making a show of walking the length of the room, his fingers tracing the hard edges of multiple chairs, a sinister smile playing at a face long resigned to vengeance. “The8 and I are perfectly capable of intruding. They’ll be dead before their bodies hit the floor,” 

Mingyu waved him off with apparent indignation on Junhui’s behalf, the latter seeming rather unbothered as wry amusement forced a grin upon his features. “We should stick with the original plan. We have to make them weaker before we strike,” 

“And how do you suggest we do it then?” Chan pulled out a chair with bubbling frustration, venom coating bitter words. “All any of you have done is talk. I’m tired of talking; I’m tired of waiting.” His eyes narrowed further, “If the Blackjacks aren’t capable of taking out their own from the inside then the Spades will do it ourselves,” 

“Careful,” Hansol looked on with agitation, “I wouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. We have to be level headed about this,” 

Seokmin tensed suddenly, the appearance of Jeonghan at his side sending a cold, hard dread to his stomach. His smile was thin lipped, his words curt and impatient. And for all the virtues their leader possessed, it seemed that simply being in the face of adversity was never enough. There had to be action, had to be triumphs and victories. 

Jeonghan was a master of playing the game. But when no players moved their pawns, it left him in a state of reflective stagnation that forced his hand. 

His understanding was running low, his appreciation for their current alliance was dwindling dangerously. Soonyoung was a beloved friend, more so than a simple ally-- more than that, Jeonghan was responsible for his recruitment. 

It had been enough to be agreeable. 

But Jeonghan could never betray his own sense of trust to those who had killed on his behalf. 

“I apologize for Dino’s aggression-- he’s our youngest,” Jeonghan studied his nails in a way that suggested otherwise, “But I’m afraid that if we can’t reach any compromises, then the Spades will retract ourselves from any previous arrangements.” 

Namjoon allowed a huff of sardonic laughter past his lips, “What will you do? Leave? I don’t think that’s possible,” 

“I don’t imagine that you’d like to find out.” Wonwoo’s eyes glinted, his words a stable baritone that brought out the most enragingly apathetic of threats. There was a sneer that distorted his usually calm face, “After all,” his words were slow and heavy, unspoken dares and open disdain on his tongue, “Any building can crumble.”

Mingyu surged forward at his open taunt, held back only by Seungcheol’s abrasive hand as he forced the younger to remain seated. His eyes held the kind of fury that would send any passing stranger to their knees, the kind of unadulterated anger that could shake anyone to their core. 

“Namjoon, we need to act now.” Seungcheol’s glare was dark, tainted with the kind of bloodlust that could only be achieved through years of grooming, memories of gore and betrayal hidden as the bags beneath his eyes and the shadow behind his stable figure. He was an heir whose thrown had been robbed, and even now a conclusion seemed too far out of reach for his liking.

He wasn’t the spoiled trust fund child Jeonghan had expressed detesting, but he certainly contained the same malice that had sent humankind into the depths of their own misery since before kingdom come. 

In those moments he was devoid, made up of his raven eyes and hair, coated with the same nothingness that his father had wished him to become. And in those moments, those few beats of unsteady silence, Seokmin finally understood the face behind it all. 

Violence had never been the act that had corrupted humanity-- it was the most human notion of all, to hurt, to avenge. 

And there, in all of his merciless waiting, stood one Choi Seungcheol as the catalyst who had provoked a war of tongues and blood. 

Jeonghan was delighted in a sickening sort of way, elated innocence with the pure satisfaction of finally achieving the smallest of wins. Chan was eager, a childlike face contorted with ideas of coding and calculated murders, excited as though he had gotten accepted into the university he never could have dreamed of. Wonwoo possessed the kind of apathy only required through bitter means of feeling and lying, a pendulum that swung only between life and death as though both were completely and utterly the same. Minghao watched on with wise eyes, eyes that had watched countless bleed before him without so much as faltering the blades he carried. Seungkwan was anxious, anxious for the announcements of completed missions and dead targets and the fallout in between and Seokmin finally understood. 

If the world was destined to ruin, should humans truly be the evil only fated to destroy, then who were they to live for anything other than themselves?

And then Seokmin laughed, because it was all so useless, so futile, to pretend to be anything other than the cold blooded animals that they were. 

Namjoon nodded in response to his cousin’s demand, sighing in resignation as he gestured to a nearby maid for another drink. “We don’t have much time. If we’re doing this, we have to at least be able to stand one another,” 

Jeonghan motioned to one of the maids for a drink of his own, much to Seungcheol’s open annoyance. “Of course. I wouldn’t want it any other way,” He drank idly, swirling the liquid about languidly as he settled himself behind the chair of Hong Jisoo, who had remained rather hushed throughout the entire ordeal, his expression indecipherable against the stares of scrutiny that fell upon them both. 

“Tell me, Cheollie,” Jeonghan draped himself along the chair’s back side, his fingers hovering just above the exposed skin of Jisoo’s neck, as if daring a refusal to surface from the heir as he reclaimed the control he craved with nothing but a simple touching of air. 

“When do we begin?” 

 

It was a plan that possessed all the flaws of scatterbrained thoughts and high stakes, of uneven temperaments and unruly patience-- but it was a plan they had formulated nonetheless, allowing the shared desperation of the room to subside as groups were subsequently formed, and spite was subsequently kept hushed on bitter tongues. 

That was what left Jeonghan accompanied by his most trusted infiltration expert, Minghao-- and the other one, whose name seemed to slip Jeonghan’s mind if not only from the sheer lack of care sending his system into overdrive, but simply from a place of negative feelings and wonderings. 

Upon his open display of taunt involving Jisoo, Minghao had offered a rather unimpressed glance and a silent questioning of necessity. But Jeonghan was notorious for a lack of mercy when it involved the psychological teasings of presences he couldn’t stand. And while he usually wouldn’t risk being quite so needlessly bold, his emotions were worn thin from worry and mental exhaustion regarding the state of a friend gone for far too long; and it seemed that transforming his sadness into sharp tongued words and reckless actions were all that he was truly good for. 

And should the time arise and Jisoo need an escape, it seemed that his plan of throwing his dirtied actions into the open would be the best means of hurtful betrayal, even if Jeonghan would willingly do his best to delay what he hoped wasn’t truly inevitable. And should it need be, the truth would only be fueled by petty actions such as staking claim with open ended air touches and daunting glares. 

Jeonghan recalled his name suddenly, the man rocking on his heels in what could only be anticipation. Their team’s main task was to achieve the complete decimation of a Blackjack office building, explicitly tasked to assassinate two high ranking officials. The other two teams would follow their instructions based on the outcome of their own mission-- which resulted in an unfair amount of pressure riding along shoulders already far too tense. 

Junhui seemed rather unbothered by it all, if only a bit on the antsy side. He scratched at his earpiece hidden behind tousled locks, unused to being accompanied while he performed bloodied artworks of corpses and lifeless faces. 

Minghao surveyed their surroundings with keen eyes, halting only upon the sudden voice speaking to them from a van parked a few miles off, the devices placed firmly in their ears allowing only a small emission of static. “Chan is almost done with the security cameras, and Hansol disabled the metal detectors. You’ll have to be fast, they’ll realize that something’s off soon,” 

“Thank them for us, Seungkwan.” Jeonghan straightened out the wrinkles in his dress shirt, the formal attire not quite fitting his frame the way tailored pieces should-- then again, it was tailored for one of Namjoon’s men, and he had adamantly refused providing personal aid for a plan that may prove to get them killed. It left them as both the players and pawns, the queens and bishops fused into one. Jeonghan could only hope that his lack of experience in this kind of field work could be made up for by quick wits and a knack for acting. 

He could hear Seungkwan’s mumblings running through his brain, incoherent worries and focused murmurings. The reply came, strained, “You’re all set. Be careful, and be listening,” 

“Naturally,” Junhui happily cracked his knuckles as he stretched, the glinting of metal poking out from a layered pocket. He grinned, wolfish, making a show of twirling out from behind the corner of which they sat and approaching the men situated outside the building’s back entrance. 

Upon the sound of cracking bones and pain filled groans Jeonghan inwardly winced, unused to those who sought blood so easily. Minghao was experienced, and wasn’t hesitant by any means, but he had never seemed quite so frugal with the human lives he held within his hands, even as he watched people’s pleaing breaths become the last words they ever uttered. 

Minghao followed soon after, motioning for Jeonghan to go forward, only slightly apologetic when he stepped on the arm of a man with a neck distorted unnaturally, his eyes wide and unseeing. 

The other man’s hand was pinned to the wall behind him, crimson droplets hitting the ground as he attempted to wretch away the knife embedded deep into his flesh. Junhui clutched his other arm, standing atop his legs, his carefree expression morphed into one of eerie calm. “I’ll only ask one more time before I cut out your tongue.” He teased the man’s fingernails with a second blade, his frenzied shrieks from behind Junhui’s palm reducing to small whimpers. “What’s the code?”  
“How can he tell us if he has no tongue?” Jeonghan observed the display without much sympathy-- after all, whether the men were simple subordinates or containing influence didn’t deter Jeonghan’s judgements. After all, they were all guilty of the same crimes, and shared the same immoral livings produced by the children and women they tortured. 

No, Jeonghan felt no sympathy-- in his line of work, you couldn’t afford to; especially not for men like him. 

“He could write it in blood,” The suggestion tumbled easily from Junhui’s lips as he pressed the blade’s edge to skin, earning yet another cry. 

Minghao dragged the man already slain and crammed his body underneath the rusted dumpsters that loomed, huffing. “That’ll take too long. Just ask him again,” 

Junhui pressed further, his eyebrows raised. “You don’t want this, do you? Tell us and we’ll be on our merry way,” 

Junhui lowered his hand with caution, twirling his bloodied blade if only for the sheer reminder of the power he held with nothing but the slightest fidget. The man coughed, his pants growing frenzied, “Six, two, six, one, five…” 

Jeonghan avoided the trail of scarlett puddling onto the cigarette ridden pavement as he passed, pressing onto the keypad while suppressing the chills that threatened to break along his skin as he wondered what kind of men had touched those very same keys. 

The door opened with a click, and Junhui buried his knife into the man’s neck before he could even release another suffering whine. 

The man joined his comrade shortly thereafter, Minghao chastising Junhui for leaving so much evidence of their workings behind. He shrugged, offering an excuse about how properly hiding the bodies would take too much of their time, and it wasn’t as if no one would notice the hand sticking out from under the trash bins anyway. 

Junhui covered his bloodied undershirt with the jacket he had thrown haphazardly, brushing off dust and clutter with nimble fingers as they entered the crumbling basement containing wads of cash and bags of suspicious substances. Jeonghan nicked a few as they passed, avoidant of anything other than the money that would be sure to come in handy-- after all, it wasn’t as if any of the currency left would be used; not in the wake of destruction. 

“You have thirty minutes before things start coming back online,” Seungkwan’s voice interrupted their silent watchings, “The floor plan says that if you go up and to the right that there’ll be an elevator. Head there first,” There was a brief pause before he continued, “Jisoo says that he knows the building you’re in. He says that the executive’s office is on floor flive, room eleven. His assistant should be there as well,” 

Their two targets, sitting and waiting for their deaths like the degenerates they were. Jeonghan sneered, the matches in his pocket itching to be used as they climbed the stairs with ease, brimming with all the self assurances of vigilante justice and cold blooded killings. 

True to Seungkwan’s words, an elevator was positioned towards the end of the first floor’s corridor, gleaming and embroidered with pretentious designs. They passed a man dragging a young woman by her hair, a woman who Jeonghan could only assume was an escort of sorts if only from her exposed clothing and tattoo placement. He chewed his cheek, careful to avoid any fidgeting as the elevator neared. 

Jeonghan couldn’t save her. 

But he was working to save those like her, to save those born into unfortunate circumstances, to put an end to those in power who sought advantage over those who they deemed inferior. 

Jeonghan couldn’t save her-- but he could help save others like her, and for now, that would have to be enough. 

 

Sometimes, when Seungkwan found enough time to ponder his shameful life choices with deserved scrutiny; it became painfully apparent that out of anyone who had joined their group of unfortunate circumstances, he was by far the least suspecting. He held a friendly face and a kind smile, his boisterous persona destined for the world of entertainment long before he could form even slight coherent sentences, surely.

Except in this life, in this world of constant wrongdoings and unjust acts; Boo Seungkwan lost his family at the hands of lesser but greater men, evil lurking in deranged power but power nonetheless, leaving a small shell of a boy to collapse into himself; a dying star of fading colors and shattered dreams. 

Seungkwan could still feel the despair of heavy weighted words and lost hope fluttering behind closed eyes, could still find the ghosts of his past upon rainy nights when all he could recall was the skidding of tires and asphalt, the shooting of bullets that rattled his core and deafened everything other than the shrieks of his sisters, his mother--

It was too much. Even now, even as his teenage self was tenderly buried under years of poor coping and sorrowful wallowing; it would never fail to be too much. 

Seungkwan had taken shelter with his grandmother for the remainder of his childhood, timidly refusing friendships and praying, praying for the chance to feel again. Praying for an opportunity to be whole, because his family was dead and would never return but he was living, living and breathing but feeling as if he were dead just the same. 

Upon the night of his grandmother’s passing Seungkwan gathered flowers, wrote a small letter with weary goodbyes, and took a bus to the part of town he feared the most if only for the sake of dramatic farewells and feigned satisfaction with a life never truly lived. 

And upon a night of glistening water and crisp evening air, Seungkwan had poised on the ledge of a bridge stretching to the sky, staring at the stars above as he choked back the cries that would be his last.

But before Seungkwan could manage to summon what little courage he still possessed, there had been a hand on his shoulder, a voice in his ear; and slowly, surely, Seungkwan realized that he couldn’t right all the wrongs of their world, but by God someone had to try. 

“Jeonghan, are you receiving?” Seungkwan listened to the incessant clicking of keys and buttons, Chan’s eyes narrowed, his bottom lip raw from nervous biting as he murmured under his breath. 

“We’re almost to the fifth level. How’s our time?” He sounded composed, assured and nonchalant, and Seungkwan found himself forcing back his blatant exasperation if only to spare himself from snarky remarks. 

“You’re down to fifteen minutes-- Minghao, Junhui, are you both receiving?” 

“Yep,” There was a short delay in transmission before Junhui’s reply was heard. Seungkwan glanced towards Hansol, who continued monitoring their security with tense shoulders and small mutterances to Chan, neither breaking concentration from their task-- Seungkwan was unsure of whether or not he should be concerned, or if perhaps their behavior was just that of your average focused technology experts. 

Deciding against worrying their current field players, Seungkwan continued listening with the calmest frame of mind he could muster. 

“We split up like you said. I should be out soon,” Minghao’s tone didn’t convey any type of particular concern, and while Seungkwan readily trusted his judgement, he couldn’t afford to allow their apparent lack of concern to better them and jeopardize their mission. 

“Wait for my signal,” Seungkwan cast another peek towards those seated near him, Jisoo eyeing the outside of the van for lurking figures while they waited. 

“Who taught you to hack, anyway? I thought you were a street rat.” Chan’s attempt at idle conversings appeared more insulting than friendly, and Seungkwan grimaced, preparing himself to launch into a lecture about respect and proper social mannerisms before Hansol replied, seemingly unbothered.

“I am. Mr.Choi has a leading expert of online defenses, and insisted that I learn from him after Jisoo flew me in so that Seungcheol wouldn’t rely on him so much,” Hansol sniffed, his shoulders relaxing slightly, and Seungkwan found that he couldn’t be particularly affronted when Chan had relaxed his nerves. 

And while Jisoo seemed to hold his tongue at Chan’s rat comment, his tone still hinted at slight disapproval as he interrupted their surprisingly docile chat. “Seungcheol and the rest are trying to radio in, so I think they’re ready,” 

“We’re solid on my end.” Hansol nodded at his screen, appraising his work with tired eyes. 

Seungkwan raised an eyebrow to their youngest, who seemed reluctant to confirm that their work was complete, even as the screen’s complex numbers and digits molded into something more compliant, something more malleable for Chan to shape to his will. 

“It’s not as strong as I’d like it.” Chan hummed, leaning back into his chair as he muttered, “But if anyone tries to interfere we’ll have time to try and stop them,” 

Seungkwan tapped back into his earpiece, fire running through his veins against the churning in his stomach as he was greeted by static silence. “Is everyone ready?” 

There were two steady confirmations along with an ambiguous statement regarding fireworks and red wires, and Seungkwan found that while he grew frustrated with Jeonghan’s improvisations, he was no match for the chaotic mass of unpredictability that was Wen Junhui. 

“Be fast with whatever you’re doing, you’re down to seven minutes-- meet us at the boulevard.” Seungkwan released the sigh that had been threatening to force its way out of his closing throat for what felt like centuries, a sad hollowness ringing through his chest at the familiar feeling of uselessness stole his breath away. 

“If we’re not there after ten minutes then leave us. We’ll find you eventually,” 

The words were supposed to provide comforting reassurance, but they did nothing to soothe the cold sweat of Seungkwan’s palms or the anxieties he attempted to fight away.

Jeonghan was a survivor, a witty maker of situations and adapter of circumstance, leading them with passion and care, nurturing the helpless souls that they were into something no longer broken but never quite complete-- even so, they were but mortals, and even the strongest of fires could always flicker into ash. 

Seungkwan could only hope that those meaningless words wouldn’t be Jeonghan’s last as he was once again reminded of that misty evening, the sound of gentle streams and swaying leaves, of closed eyes and warm smiles despite the cavity in Seungkwan’s heart and the bleakness of his being. 

Hansol placed a loose hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly-- a gesture that left Seungkwan reeling even as it ended, a gesture that still left him grappling with whatever relationship he may have yet to salvage. 

Seungkwan fought against himself for what had yet to be the final time in his life as he reluctantly spoke with more confidence than he truly contained, “We have to go. I’ll see you later-- good luck,” 

And then the only sounds that greeted him was the stirring of computer monitors and the starting of an engine against the hush that suffocated even the brightest of optimists contained in their small vicinity. 

Seungkwan established a differing connection, one that wrung his doubts and forced his knees into weakness as he channeled for their third party with poorly veiled anticipation. 

They connected within a few mere moments, and Seungkwan pledged a silent promise that no matter the outcome his hope wouldn’t be lost, because then it would have all truly been for nothing. 

“We’re ready for you. Don’t be stupid, make smart decisions and don’t get caught.” Seungkwan’s words fell flat and seemed rather inconsequential, but it seemed as though his message was well received. 

After all, Wonwoo had never been sufficient when it came to handling sappy statements of open emotions. 

A wry chuckle met his ears, dry and rattling. 

Seungkwan would have preferred it no other way. 

 

Out of all of the ideas Wonwoo had scoffed at, out of all the presumptions he had taken on with condescending sharp tongued remarks and sleepless nights; he had never taken into consideration the fact that even scum have an affinity for human valuables. 

And it was strange, how the historic building situated before him was ripe with arches and splashes of color, how floral beauty flourished along walls, how streets were dappled in sunlight and bathed in the marks of frequent visitation. 

It was a rouse, Seungcheol had explained-- a disguise, a symbol of unity and knowledge tainted by what lay hidden underneath. A popular mafia interrogation network intertwined with tourist locations and a past trampled on by ignorant feet, unknowing passerbys of torture and pain. 

There was a garden to their right, colored with ivy and roses the shade of the blood Wonwoo hoped to spill, the shade of maroon that kept lifeless bodies breathing and drained the living of every thought, of every bleak notion as they stared up with pleading eyes, the last face they ever studied being the cold profile of the one who watched their dreams and aspirations stain the carpet red until dawn light seeped through parted curtains, until there was nothing but empty bones and mangled waste. 

Wonwoo tore apart the flowers with his hands, picked off the petals and relished in the way petals fluttered to the ground, laying upon his feet, decorating the vague shine of leather shoes and clothes purposefully dulled, a scattered monument to the very notion that one was only ever complete once they were collapsed into their own scarlett ruination. 

Wonwoo had never faulted those who sought revenge with teary eyes and hoarse whimpers, had never found a space for hatred directed towards grieving mothers and childless parents whose only purpose was the devastation of another.

He faulted human error, blamed rich men corrupted by a sense of invincibility so strong that they smile even at the chilling sensation of cold metal pressed against their temple, so strong that they stare deep into unblinking eyes that pull the trigger as their disturbed head space splatters against designer walls and drips onto the materialistic desires they hold so dear. 

More than that, though, Wonwoo finds that he blames those similar to him, who are numbed to the guilt of taking lives, who fight for a cause that can never be cured if only because of the fact that it’s the only thing that’s truly left of him. 

How can you defeat the very thing that you’ve become? 

“Wonwoo,” Seokmin called his name gently, his brow furrowed in concentration as he motioned to their surroundings, fiddling with the stems of the plants that concealed their presence. “We have to be listening for the signal,” 

“It’s a fire alarm,” Wonwoo paused as he began to rummage through the pocket of his suit for a lighter, hoping that the cigarettes he had smuggled wouldn’t be wasted. “We’ll hear it. Seungcheol is on the other side, isn’t he?” 

It was Seungkwan who answered, the voice in his earpiece strained from distance. “Yes. Mingyu has breached security now, and should be on his way to the basement to unlock the door for you. The first two guards will be chasing him when the bomb detonates,” 

Upon Seungcheol’s direction, the third party bore trackers rather than ear pieces, something about a purposeful transmission blockage making them impractical. Wonwoo had been selected to carry the weight of Seungkwan’s confidence until their connection was lost, which would replace their locations upon his monitor with nothing but a blank screen. 

Once lost, their goal was to simply reach the meeting place as soon as possible without being captured or killed. If they couldn’t accomplish their given task within forty five minutes of signal loss, the others would return to Namjoon’s mansion until further instruction. 

Aside from Seungcheol, Mingyu was the most knowledgeable regarding transportation and hostage interrogations-- and since the heir’s face was far too easily recognized, they had opted for Mingyu’s infiltration rather than anyone else being discovered due to a lack of notable experience. 

If all went well, then he would be discovered, leaving him as a distraction and allowing Seungcheol to level the first floor with explosives and ignite the building itself. 

Seokmin and Wonwoo would have an opening through a back entrance which should be destroyed, and from there their progression was risky at best-- but their general lack of importance to the mafia gave them an advantage if they were to be discovered in the final stage of their plan. Seungcheol or Mingyu would be too satisfactory-- Mingyu would rather die in the midst of rubble and flames, and Seungcheol was far too prideful to be taken alive by his father’s men. 

But as for Seokmin and Wonwoo, well-- the only ties they held were the ones they constructed with strings of spite and hatred. 

If any captives were taken, then the freedom relinquished would have to be taken from those who had already sacrificed common life long before mafia gangsters even had the slightest utterance of the name ‘Spades’ upon their tongue. 

There was a piercing ringing through the silence, loud, breaking the hush of gentle and interested bystander murmurs, sending birds scattering through brambled tree limbs and children screaming to their parents. 

Seokmin gave Wonwoo a tense glance, one that spoke of silent promises and mistakes long made. He wanted to speak, to offer solace to a friend weary from a life of unjust misfortune, to be kind and open if only just this once.

But Wonwoo’s throat was dried against the gentle beating of the sun and the sound of hurried footsteps and confused shouts; and suddenly there was nothing but the shaking of the Earth and the flowers that toppled under rubble and flames. 

The smoke was all consuming, the flashes of fire and screams overbearing in the face of gritted teeth and muttered curses. Wonwoo followed Seokmin’s frame, who coughed and hacked upon their entrance, who swayed on his feet as he navigated the debris left of a place Wonwoo wished he had visited within childhood.

Three men came barrelling out of a faulty stairwell, their eyes widened with confusion as smoke suddenly filled their lungs. Wonwoo fired, his gunshots ringing into the chaos as bodies fell upon dusted floors and powdery foundation. Seokmin grabbed his arm, tugging him forward as they shot into the abyss of smoke and hanging infrastructure.  
Tears stung Wonwoo’s eyes as he struggled to breathe, grey fog smothering his lungs, flames licking upon walls as they fell victim beneath scorching heat. 

They came upon a dimmed hallway lined with closed doors, heavy metals gleaming under soft light. The floors creaked and crackled above them, sending a hollowness throughout Wonwoo’s chest.

A set of keys were hanging along the wall, each embroidered with a different number, reflecting the small digits engraved on every door’s right side. He tossed them to Seokmin, clutching some himself as they rushed to investigate as many rooms as they could manage. 

“We don’t have time,” Wonwoo could feel sweat dripping down his forehead, eyes narrowed against the sting, his breathing labored and ragged as his lungs bathed in smoky entrails. “I can’t see for shit, either. Fuck,” 

Seokmin struggled to reply, “They’re in here,” he tossed open yet another empty space with harrowed desperation, “Soonyoung is in here,” 

“Soonyoung!” Seokmin flung open the next door, his voice raspy as he hacked, pausing to clutch his chest. “Soonyoung,” 

“Shut up,” Wonwoo could feel himself suffocating, could hear the building’s foundation settling against the flames above that threatened to collapse. “What the hell will I do if you black out?” 

“Maybe they can’t hear us,” Seokmin banged his fists against the wall, “We have to be loud, it’s the fastest way,” 

There was a thumping towards the end of the looming corridor, uneven and weak. Wonwoo ushered himself forward, black specks beginning to haze his vision as he clumsily unlocked the door with clammy hands and shallow breaths. 

Bloodied and bruised, Kwon Soonyoung and Lee Jihoon sat with cloths over their mouths and emptiness in their eyes. They wheezed against their restraints, attempting to loosen themselves even as their blood stained ropes began to fall at their feet. 

“Fuck,” Jihoon coughed as Seokmin supported his weight, the latter taking care to be careful despite the urgency of time escaping them. “You idiots don’t think things through,” 

“A fire could get you killed, too,” There was a blaze within those eyes that Wonwoo had come to know well, Soonyoung managing to offer an aura of intimidation even as his appearance likened him to nothing but his sufferings and unending vulnerability. He hoisted Soonyoung’s arm over his shoulder, trailing after Seokmin’s hastened footsteps and the sight of him carrying their shorter companion on his back. “Why would you risk it?” 

“Don’t ask stupid questions. Be quiet,” Wonwoo forced out his curt reply, energy seeping from his limbs as he climbed the stairs, the general bleariness of his vision beginning to succumb to something far more problematic. He fought against the threat of everlasting sleep, fought against the urge to allow himself to fall into a state he would never awaken from. 

Soonyoung needed him. His friend, his ally, a man stained with sinful aggression and bloodlust unlike any other-- a rival in both hitmanship and expression, Soonyoung deserved to live. 

The smoke scorched his lungs as they entered upon the first level, blinding lights dancing and curling around their frames as one Choi Seungcheol stumbled into view. He was ashen, covered in dust and soot. His clothes were tattered, blemished from the blood which dripped steadily from a gash at his temple. 

“Good. We have to go,” Seungcheol had only taken a few measly steps forward when Wonwoo felt it. The shifting of ground beneath his feet, the absence of solidity as the world began to plunder into searing heat below. 

Wonwoo shoved Soonyoung forward, noises of strangled pain barely registering as the floor below caved down into a firey abyss, leaving Wonwoo as nothing but dangled legs and hands grappling for anything, anything to allow a bitter, spiteful man to live to kill another day. 

He found it, barely, the only thing tethering Wonwoo to his undeserved life was the floor of which he previously stood, wood jutting out, readying to send him flying into sweltering warmth. 

After all, any building can crumble. 

He could hear yelling above him, could understand shouts laced with desperation even as they grew faint, even as he was left only to himself and the flames that threatened to ignite upon his feet. 

And even as he clutched the remnants of the floor, even as his fingers clambered for a hold, Wonwoo found that he could feel the anger of those who he had ended within those flames, beckoning him downward with widened eyes and scarlett tinted lips, of mangled forms and grieving friends, of betrayed mothers and deserted children.  
And Wonwoo felt them pulling him down further, as his panic began to subside, as his thirst for life dwindled into a small whisper, a small breath of promises and aspirations never to be seen. 

And perhaps if there was any sort of universal justice, then the hellfire that taunted Wonwoo below his feet was righteous as it seared tender skin, was so earnestly just even as he cried out from the incessant heat. 

Wonwoo could recall the face of his mother, the scruff and greying hair of his father, the gentle smile of his younger brother.

And in those moments of agony and fatal remembrance, Wonwoo relinquished his hold on life and the loathing that kept him stagnant in a world long accused of pain, and allowed his eyes to flutter closed, to embrace the ache, to enjoy the silence of hellfire and unfortunate ends. 

The fall never came. 

There was a pressure alongside his arms, relentless and pressing. Wonwoo opened his eyes hesitantly, alarmed to see the piercing gaze of Kim Mingyu reflecting his apparent surprise. He grunted, pushing back with his legs to ease Wonwoo over the slope of crumbled floors. 

Wonwoo hissed at the sensation of Mingyu turning to lift him by his thighs, narrowly avoiding the painful, blistering area where fire had nearly consumed him. Wonwoo flinched at the sound of walls continuing to plunder around them, listened to the pops and crackles of fire. 

His arms were linked around Mingyu’s neck, the latter breathing shallowly as they averted flames and caved floors, progressing as swiftly as they could manage. 

It was agony, searing flesh, painful shots spiralling up his legs and numbing his brain. Tears stung his eyes, and suddenly there was nothing but blurred vision and painful torment. 

And maybe Wonwoo should have been left to burn until he was nothing more than the dust and soot that remained in his place, and maybe he was nothing but this feeling of anguish that overcame it all. 

But maybe what he had been told was true.

What Wonwoo craved was rest, was escape, was a sense of isolationism and peace as he ran from his sins, as he lamented in the lives taken and his lack of remorse.  
He wanted nothing, wanted darkness, freedom from what wasn’t his to control. He wanted to be alone and left to escape what he’s become, what he’s afraid of becoming. 

But maybe he didn’t really want to die. 

Maybe no one really wants to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I don’t agree with all things characters think or say, this is a morally ambiguous story, so please keep that in mind! 
> 
> Hello! I’m back from two vacations that took place almost back to back, which didn’t leave me with much time to write. But now that I’m back, I have plenty of time to continue updating as soon as I can :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are welcomed and highly appreciated, as is criticism <3 thank you again


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Mentions of past sexual abuse, pedophilia, & implied sexual activity**
> 
>  
> 
> Seungcheol makes poor decisions as he struggles with the fact that perhaps a close ally can’t be trusted. 
> 
> Jisoo yearns for the touch of another, but subjects himself to the demons of his past.
> 
> Mingyu realizes that maybe things aren’t as clear as he formerly believed. 
> 
> Junhui searches for information and makes a startling discovery. 
> 
> Hansol learns to accept the past for what he’s made it.

The operation had gone as smoothly as they could have managed with dollar signs hanging over their heads and the limited resources one possessed when living in political exile. 

Lee Jihoon and Kwon Soonyoung were in better condition than originally anticipated, but that in itself left Seungcheol far more anxious than if they had been returned with missing limbs and severed tongues. His father had them in his grasp, had one of Seungcheol’s closest men and a political threat in the very same room, incriminated together, but chose to leave them be with bruised ribs and simple fractures. 

Seungcheol gnawed the inside of his cheek. Seeing Jihoon in the state that he was forced him to realize that after their mission, it was inevitable that his father was going to continue his revenge without any former restrictions. They owned the media, and the belief of the people wasn’t nearly as important as the Blackjack’s dignity should the populace even begin to grow restless. 

They truly were unstoppable. 

Jeon Wonwoo was currently in the same medical room as the other two, suffering second degree burns along his feet and legs, the damaged tissue reaching up to his calves, halting below his knees. Namjoon assured both Seungcheol and Jeonghan alike that his nurses were specially trained and extremely accustomed to handling such injuries, but they worried nonetheless. It wasn’t as if they could simply continue as they were, with wounds that left them chained to their beds and in a state of physical and mental exhaustion. 

Seungcheol cursed their circumstances for what felt as if it was the hundredth time, cursed the fact that outsiders had to interfere and leave his name tied to implications of treason and betrayal, because even if he was well aware that he and his father could never rule together he had never believed that he would be the one forced to scrape together what remnants of trust his followers still carried and still rule above them. He never believed that it would be his name they whispered with amusement upon the spectacle of the heir that may never be, never believed that it was his face they searched for upon every dimmed street and prostitute littered alleyway if only for a glimpse at the one who had lost it all. 

Seungcheol had been worshipped yet despised, admired but detested; his downfall bringing a sense of grim satisfaction to those who would previously offer to be the ground he walked upon, if only for a chance to become closer, to climb the ranks, to become superior. 

Seungcheol felt murderous rage burning every time his eyes fluttered close, felt a painful vengeance coursing through his veins with every shallow breath. 

Never in all of his years had Choi Seungcheol ever felt powerless. Not during the worst of times, not when he realized that he was the evil in the world people spoke of, that he leeched off of the workings of the less fortunate-- that he made the less fortunate themselves, that he murdered hundreds from a bleak suspicion alone. 

But he could feel it creeping inside of him, that notion, that stinging doubt-- that this state of redemption and anger was all that was left for him. 

And for the first time, not only was Seungcheol powerless; he was trapped.

And it terrified him. 

“Seungcheol.” Jisoo entered his room abruptly, seemingly apologetic as he promptly closed the door in his wake. “I’m sorry to interrupt you like this, but there’s something I wanted to talk with you about,” 

Hong Jisoo was easily one of the most intelligent people Seungcheol had ever had the pleasure of working with. And while he wasn’t the most skilled fighter, he was a master of keen plans and perceptive details. He was never the type to forcefully take, no-- he would deceive you until you gave, would allow you to brag on your life’s savings while he effortlessly left you blinded and careless, until all that was left of your fortune were the few pennies he granted with a pity filled hand. 

And so, even if Seungcheol had just been itching to go drown his doubts in alcohol and drugs he most certainly would be advised to avoid, he beckoned Jisoo to join him on the leather sofa. 

“Go ahead, I’m all ears.” And he was, for the most part. But Seungcheol couldn’t lose this nagging suspicion that while Jisoo was a loyal friend, he was also dangerously intuitive and could easily pick up on subtle clues you were unaware of giving. He wondered how far his friend, who was currently eyeing gold encrusted objects with vague interest, would go in order to preserve something he deemed worthy of protecting. 

“You know better than anyone that things are going to get worse. Your father is going to be livid, and we’re going to start hearing about some of his recent activities. But,” Jisoo traced the designs of a watch he bore along his wrist, his brows furrowing. “It felt too easy. How he had them both in the same place,” 

Seungcheol had truthfully considered this already. If Jihoon and Soonyoung had been located anywhere else, they would have never risked going in fear of a set up or ambush, but since the warehouse was located under a historical building that was popular in tourism, his father couldn’t risk sending his heavily armed forces to interfere if anything were to happen. They chose to burn the place regardless, since any other way of getting in would result in their skin covered in bullets or their bodies bound to chairs. 

And so, there were only a few options to consider. One of them being that his father was careless, or that other holding facilities were too populated-- which could be expected, if he was interrogating Seungcheol’s former allies for information. 

But there was another, one that unsettled Seungcheol the most, because Jisoo was correct in his decision-- it had all felt too convenient. “You think that he wanted us to get them,” 

Jisoo nodded, his gaze piercing. “I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I think that he wanted us to get overly confident, to get them back and be angry and irrational. He’s playing with us,” 

If Jisoo had pondered the topic long enough to warrant a discussion between them both, then there must already be another doubt verging on the tip of his tongue. And so Seungcheol lowered his voice, taking the time to voice aloud the unwelcome thought dancing around in the back of his head. “And us being here?”

“This is the most obvious place that we’d be, of course your father knows that we’re here. But he’s done nothing, and Namjoon hasn’t mentioned that, either.” Now that they completed their original goal of ensuring Jihoon’s safety, it was unclear where their alliances lay. The Spades hadn’t yet voiced any intentions of their stay, even after Namjoon’s threats, and truthfully, Seungcheol had expected Namjoon to have had them moved or relocated, but the idea was never properly expressed-- and with Jihoon being at risk Seungcheol chose to accept the danger that was obviously at hand, and then decide what action to take after their reunion. 

And now that it was completed, Seungcheol couldn’t shake what he had originally managed to put aside. “I’ve thought about that, too. We didn’t have any other option at the time, but now…” his sentence carried off, a heavy sigh delaying his words. “I think you’re right. Namjoon may be working against us if it means that he gets to power faster. But if that’s the case, then I don’t understand why nothing has happened to us yet,” 

There was something shifting in the air, strange and apprehensive, and then Seungcheol suddenly understood what the true purpose behind their conversation was. Jisoo wasn’t idle, never voiced his uncertainties unless he had a way to properly combat them. 

He never spoke about the obvious unless he believed there to be ways to fittingly fight against it. 

“What are you suggesting we do?” Seungcheol felt his chest tighten, his brows furrowing as his tone suddenly grew much colder than before. 

Jisoo had a pensive smile painted across his features, gentle and disarming. But Seungcheol knew better than to trust it, because there was a flicker of something strange in the eyes he knew well. “You won’t like it, but you have to trust me.” There was a brief pause before he continued, “I’m going to get some information later tonight, I’ll need you to cover for me. Say that I went to the store or that you needed me to run errands-- it’s up to you, I just need you to confirm it,” 

“Where are you going?” Seungcheol was afraid that he already knew the answer. 

“I’m going to see Mrs. Park-- don’t look at me that way, Seungcheol. We have to know,” Jisoo refused to avert his stare, tiredly resigned as he fought against Seungcheol’s blatant frustration. It was a name associated with knowledge and influence, a name that held far too much guidance over the general happening of things. Before Seungcheol had completed the transference of Jisoo from his father’s name to his, the woman had taken a particular liking to him-- a liking that would lead to nights Seungcheol wished he could forget, where Jisoo admitted to doing things he regretted if only because he had never received praise from any motherly figure before.

As he matured, Jisoo continued his estranged relations for the sake of information rather than inner turmoil, forcing himself to endure discomfort and self hatred so Seungcheol could attain information of his father’s workings. When he realized that Jisoo was exchanging himself rather than just snooping about, they came to an agreement that he would sooner have Jisoo sent away than to continue to exploit himself in Seungcheol’s name. 

“No fucking way.” His first true friend and longest confidant, there was no place in Seungcheol’s ego for Jisoo to submit himself yet again to those memories he still struggled to bury. 

“Seungcheol, there’s no one who hates her more than me.” There was a pleading to his voice, small and exhausted, and Seungcheol had never been so eerily reminded of that dirt covered factory boy that had struck him so. “Absolutely no one. But she’s the only one who we know would never sell me out, and the best way for us to know what’s going on. I’ve been thinking about this for awhile now,” 

“I said no and I meant it,” Seungcheol snapped, standing to walk the length of the room, reaching for the alcohol he had previously chosen to forgo. “Thank you for your time, Jisoo. I appreciate you talking about your concerns-- you’re probably right, like you are about most things,” He revelled in the scorching of vodka against his throat, “But if I ever hear you mention her name again I will shoot her in the head myself,” 

He heard the stirring of a squeaky couch and Jisoo’s departure, the former always knowing just when Seungcheol chose to announce his dismissal and never overstaying his welcome. There was a small murmur against the door’s swinging frame, “Don’t get drunk, you’ll regret it in the morning when Jihoon wakes up again.”   
And then Seungcheol was left to his thoughts and the spinning of the room, left to thoughts of possible betrayal and guilt long buried. 

Seungcheol knew that Jisoo was probably right, like he was about most things. 

He continued drinking anyway. 

 

Jisoo remembered the very first time his eyes had fallen upon her. 

It was a mere day after Seungcheol had insisted to his father that he would have Jisoo properly educated, that there would be no mistake in taking the unfortunate factory boy and offering him something greater. 

Jisoo could still recall the bruises and marks Seungcheol had struggled to hide under the collars of his expensive shirts and the cuffs of his designer sleeves, and even though Seungcheol had possessed more than Jisoo had ever allowed himself to dream of, there was still that same feeling of sadness for a heart too tender for a boy born into a world of pain and hurt. 

And in the middle of all the paperwork and stern, condescending tones, Mrs. Park had arrived with clothes dawning the very color of innocence from which she stole from the unsuspecting and long hair cascading down a wiry back. She was younger then, Jisoo having barely been a teenager himself-- a disarming smile and a demeanor of elegance and poise, her eyes sharp and composed, the very epitome of grace, the very image of the mother Jisoo never had. 

He would learn later that her appearance was due to a scheduled meeting regarding the business of child pornography and human trafficking, he would learn later that the child workers scattered around her estate weren’t children she had saved out of the purity of her heart, but rather, something more sinister. Something more sickening. 

And Jisoo, who had only come to know the persistent ache that was the yearning for good, fell victim to her gentle words and kind praises. She exploited him, and others like him, and it was only when Jisoo discovered the door he had opened for himself was filled with vile cruelty and blood curdling violence did he understand her touches and strange comments. 

It had always felt wrong, but she assured him that it was alright, because she wasn’t like the men that had hurt him before. She would never hurt him, all she desired was their companionship. She was his friend. 

Except she wasn’t. She killed and she lied, she slaughtered and allowed children to suffer under her direction and guidance if only for the golden trim of the rings that lined her dainty fingers. 

Jisoo had been recruited to sabotage Seungcheol’s political career from the very beginning of it all, the chance for betrayal being the only reason his father had accepted his son’s pleas. 

When Jisoo started to rebel against him, there were only so many ways that information could be obtained, only so many ways for him to support his friend without his own blood being spilled. 

Mrs. Park, in all of her delicate beauty and manipulative intentions, was one of them. 

Jisoo had spent nights with a cavity in his chest and tears in his eyes because no matter how many times he showered and washed her perfume away, she was there. No matter how many clothes he trashed or mirrors he broke with bloodied hands, his reflection with her hands clasped tightly around him still persisted. 

And even now, it had only been three years since Seungcheol forced him to end it. 

And even now, Jisoo still never felt clean. 

There was a familiar figure stalking about in the corridor, a presence most likely tired and resentful of the notion that they were to be contained and locked away in their room, as if they were a damsel in need of rescuing. 

“Jeonghan,” Jisoo called his name softly, hoping that his bleak uncertainty wasn’t seeping through his whisper. 

His hair was tousled, exhaustion taking the form of bags beneath his tender eyes as a small grin graced his face. “Shua,” the name tumbled from his lips easily, his hands straying to smooth the wrinkles of Jisoo’s shirt and to tame the strands of hair that were in disarray from incessant hair pulling. 

“Would you walk with me?” Jisoo studied the curve of Jeonghan’s eyes, found relief in the fingers that entwined in his, loose. There was an unpleasant tightness to his chest, guilt forcing him to avoid the eyes that gazed at him so intently, if only because he was afraid if they would still hold so much fondness within them if Jeonghan knew of where he would be visiting in the later hours of the night. 

But Jisoo craved the comfort that left him vulnerable, needed to be in his company even if it weakened them both.   
He knew that he would never be able to follow through with his resolve any other way. 

“Of course,” His breath was warm against Jisoo’s ear, whisps of hair tickling his cheek before Jeonghan pulled away, his fingers missing the sensation of Jeonghan’s hand around his. It was wise to be cautionary, even if there was a part of Jisoo detested the particular fragment of rationality that prolonged the polite space between them. “I was going out for a smoke, anyway,” 

“Smoking is bad for you.” Jisoo chastised him, not unkindly, his voice absent of any true amount of sharpness as they weaved in and out of hallways. 

“I need it after today. I don’t know how you deal with Wen Junhui on a regular basis, I swear, I don’t know where he found fireworks, but I’ve never been more terrified in my life.” Jeonghan giggled, swaying a bit on his feet as he bumped Jisoo lightly, causing the latter to smile despite himself. 

“You’re drunk.” Jisoo shook his head, “Why is everyone I surround myself with drinking tonight?” 

Jeonghan hummed, “Well, a third of us probably could have died earlier.” They happened upon what Jisoo could only assume to be Jeonghan’s usual smoking exit, his smile painfully bright as he held the door open, “Honestly, no one really wants to think about it,” 

The sky was beginning to settle into navy, the scattered starlight against the fresh breeze that ruffled Jisoo’s clothes made the uneasiness that plagued him dwindle, if only slightly. Jeonghan tugged him forward by his wrist, leading him through the hedges of Namjoon’s garden before they found a small bench perched next to one of the fountains he spoke of designing himself. 

“I was worried about you,” Jisoo breathed lightly, finding solace in the dark that obscured his profile. Jeonghan leaned into his side, resting his head upon Jisoo’s shoulder, sighing. 

“I know.” He traced along the exposed bits of Jisoo’s skin with slow, languid movements, teasing the palm of his hand with his thumb. “You wanted to talk about something,” 

It was phrased as a statement as opposed to a question, and Jisoo wondered just when he and his supposed enemy became able to read one another by the simple movement of their walk and the flitter of emotion that lingered in between the masks they displayed. He swallowed, “I did. I’m sorry, but I have to ask another favor,” 

An amused smile bloomed upon Jeonghan’s lips, the latter facing him properly now, distracting Jisoo with the way his hands roamed along the length of arms with careful slowness. “Anything for you, Shua.”

Heat flooded to his face, and Jisoo fought against the flustered laughter that mixed with his words. “Don’t say that,” 

“I want to.” It could be the general emotional strain of their previous mission, or maybe the negative outlook of the future, or perhaps a culmination of both that lead to Jeonghan’s sudden honesty-- they were used to being caught in the in between of closeness and something else entirely, afraid of crossing those boundaries because it certainly wouldn’t last, and maybe it was better for them to feel that longing in their chest as opposed to the grief they would feel if everything was spoken into existence and then taken from them.

But Jisoo needed him, more than he had-- it had been the fear of him not returning, or returning as Wonwoo had, covered in burns and suffering. It was the realization that Jisoo was setting his own emotional progressings aside and forcing past trauma to resurface, blindly, dumbly, if only to ensure that they were making the best decisions they could. 

“Jeonghan,” It was small, thin, a warning that shattered quietly into the night. There would be no refusals after this, neither of them would be capable of ending it so soon unless the circumstances proved to not be in their favor. And it was that alone that had kept them in a sensible state of mind up until this very moment, because of course it would never be in their favor, it was too convenient, too naive for either of them to believe. 

But Jeonghan was beautiful, with hazy eyes that bore into Jisoo’s with no restrictions, his hair messed, his clothes smelling of faint smoke as Jisoo caressed a cut alongside his cheek. 

Jisoo was reminded of wine shared in a dusty pantry, was reminded of shameful tears and awkward, stumbled confessions. 

It was obvious that anyone who was more solidified in their resolve to continue living would have retreated, would have refused to continue dancing in between what’s been spoken and what’s been known, and simply retract back into boxes of black and white; because grey was dangerous, grey was remorse and grief and pain.

But the yearning in Jisoo’s chest only dwindled when Jeonghan’s lips were gently moving against his, the chills breaking along his skin the only thing keeping him grounded against the doubt and fear that was draining Jisoo of what little life he had left. It was the sensation of Jeonghan’s hair sifting through his fingers, of Jeonghan’s arms around his neck pulling him closer, of tender sighs and painful exhales in the beginnings of a dangerous night that sent Jisoo toppling into a state he knew he couldn’t be recovered from. 

“Tell me what you need.” Jeonghan toyed with the nape of Jisoo’s neck, his eyelashes tickling the surface of Jisoo’s cheek as he murmured against his lips. 

Jisoo requested Jeonghan’s trust, relaying little details as to his whereabouts, asking that should he neglect to be back from retaining information by daybreak, that Jeonghan say that he was seen leaving at dawn-- Jisoo would return with cigarettes. 

Jeonghan’s brows furrowed, “You don’t smoke,” 

There was a sad smile upon his face as Jisoo quietly answered the question Jeonghan had yet to ask. “That’ll change, I believe,” he grinned, “Don’t look at me like that. You don’t need to worry,”

“If you’re avoiding details then I have reason to worry.” Jeonghan’s lips trailed lower, biting at the side of Jisoo’s neck, the latter sighing. “Stay,” 

“I have to go, Hannie.” Jisoo tugged lightly at his hair, Jeonghan seeming reluctant as he observed Jisoo with poorly veiled anxiety. “I’ll be back, I promise,” 

“You’ll tell me then,” Jeonghan gazed at him, searching. “Where you’re going,” 

How could he? How could Jisoo ever meet his stare, ever find relief in his company by openly admitting his weakness, his stupidity? 

How could Jeonghan still clutch him so tightly if he realized that Jisoo was willing to submit himself to it all time and time again?

“Tomorrow,” 

Jeonghan’s grip began to loosen, “Promise me,” 

“I promise,” 

They left separately, Jisoo changing his clothes into more casual attire, something more befitting of a morning errand run should his time planning fall short of his expectations. The dread in his stomach was ever growing, the disgust that sent a dull ache throughout his being forcing his steps into leaden, heavy movements. Jisoo’s door lacked any of Namjoon’s guards, the former holding a strange amount of trust for his cousin’s workers, despite their suspicion that he wasn’t as keen on Seungcheol’s leadership as previously hoped. 

Jisoo navigated subway by subway, hailed two taxis and walked five blocks before he stood before her penthouse, looming over her pretentious street. 

There was a golden gate before him, a small keypad with glowing digits reopening the wound not yet healed as he inputted a passcode reserved for Mrs. Park’s pets, a special set of numbers that never changed, that allowed her butlers and maids to know that this was a visitor of a less important kind, one you can stare at, one you can pity. 

It was a number that allowed anyone to know that Jisoo’s value was that of a few simple scribbles that were never changed in hopes that past playthings would return to their master’s beckoning hand, to her soft words coated with deceit and lies. 

He had learned from the worst of them that the only way to survive was to become someone else entirely, until you lost yourself in the smiles you faked and the words you said with such confidence that despite your better judgement, you believed them. 

And when it became too much, when your lie began to take root inside of you, you killed it and started again because that was the life he had chosen for himself. 

Jisoo was escorted inside after a few short minutes of waiting, the familiar maroons and golden hues seeming bleak against the thumping of his heart and the absence of his thoughts as the elevator ascended to the highest level, every memory coming forth at once, every murmur, every single assurance that without her he was nothing. 

It was all the same, as she opened the door with grim satisfaction, her nails digging into his shoulders as her robe already showed too much, as she softly uttered, “I knew you’d come back,” 

Her eyes fell upon the marking along Jisoo’s neck, a cold curiosity to her scrutiny, her velvet voice tinged with something more familiarly sinister as she remarked, “I see I don’t come first to you anymore,” 

“You never did.” Jisoo’s whisper was foreign against his ears, as he was reduced to the very nothing she claimed, an empty nothing, malleable against her hands. 

“We’ll fix that.” She shoved him back, sent his state spiralling into a headspace reserved for acts that Jisoo longed to forget, acts that he wished he didn’t have to do. 

Jisoo knew that he had a choice. His steps, his words, his coming back-- it was all him. 

But if those things led to his friend’s safety, to Seungcheol’s rule, to Hansol’s continuation of living-- then Jisoo would give it all away again and again, until his mind was mush and his body was constantly littered in whatever his informant left behind. 

No, Mrs. Park never came first. 

But neither did Jisoo, and so he fell easily back into old habits. 

But neither did Jisoo, and so he continued. 

 

Mingyu was restless, pacing about the room listlessly, twiddling his thumbs uselessly, biting at his lip mindlessly. It was futile, he was accomplishing nothing by staying present in the white walled, saline scented room. He had been adamant in forcing Seungcheol to the confines of his room, insisting that Jihoon would be displeased if he learned that he had neglected rest on his behalf-- and yet there Mingyu stood, unable to tear his eyes away from his friend. 

Mingyu and Jihoon had been born into their profession. It was only natural that their parents wish for them to climb the social hierarchy, to proclaim their children servants of the Chois in exchange for luxury and riches. Mingyu’s parents had been killed in a robbing several years prior, prompting his request to exchange working under Mr. Choi and have an interview conducted with his son, due to the entire incident smelling of coverups and blatant dismissal. 

Unlike Mingyu, Jihoon’s family were more involved-- they were well known amongst the Blackjacks for organizing underground events and parties in general, and in great contrast with their beloved son, found comfort in the adrenaline of poor decision making and gambling away their problems. After his parents were stripped of their pride and honor when their drinking and promises became too bold, Jihoon’s life was saved only because his reputation proceeded him as a man of intelligence and reason. One of Mr. Choi’s officials offered him to Seungcheol, seeing as it was easier than to justify Jihoon’s killing with those who had looked upon the Lee’s parties with favoritism. 

Despite having worked under him nearly all of their lives respectively, Mingyu had never spoken to Seungcheol until roughly four years ago, earning his recruitment before his nineteenth birthday. 

It was all that Mingyu had ever known, but he truly detested the way in which they started their grooming young, the way in which they forced children to look upon unruly sights for their own accustoment in hopes of creating monsters only willing to obey, to release stress upon children and women who were below them, hook them on heroin or pills or whatever they must to keep them as dogs on leashes. 

And before his services as Seungcheol’s bodyguard, Mingyu had never found another who shared silent judgements and shame regarding the things that were considered ‘work’, had neglected to find anyone who he could converse with and not feel completely drained afterwards. Lee Jihoon and Choi Seungcheol were novelties, coming out with jagged edges and being a product of their environment while also maintaining a sense of humanity that kept them from complete corruption. 

They could never be good, Mingyu wasn’t naive enough to believe that there was any truth to his hopes-- he was well aware that even if Seungcheol managed to replace his father, there would be no astounding changes in their moral dealings. 

But he knew that Seungcheol would try, and that had always been enough for him to keep Mingyu’s loyalty. 

There was a stirring to his left, a curtain hiding dark hair and hooded eyes that had stared through the depths of Mingyu’s thoughts and being on a few bleak occasions, that had forced him to question his friendships and bonds if only with a few scoffs and sharp tongued insults. 

But Mingyu had seen white knuckled hands clutching at crumbling floorboards, had seen those fingers inching back as they released, and then had those very same hands in his grasp before he could truly understand just what it was that had taken place. 

Mingyu remembered their first meeting, of small talk and refreshing honesty, and he had wondered just where, exactly, that man was hiding underneath his bitter, hardened mechanisms. 

Against his better judgement, Mingyu tentatively parted the sheer line that offered Wonwoo his privacy and poked his head around, startling slightly upon the realization that he was being pointedly observed. 

He hadn’t expected him to have regained consciousness, not after the nurse had administered so many sedatives to keep him under while she worked. Mingyu had barely contained him during his agony, Wonwoo had been a thrashing, writhing mass of limbs and screams. 

“Oh,” Mingyu swallowed, “Sorry. Um,” he coughed, “How are you feeling?” 

It was an incredibly dumb question, Mingyu had known it before the words had slipped past his better judgements and came toppling clumsily out of his mouth. Still, Wonwoo didn’t seem as prickly as he had expected, the bags under his eyes amplified, his usual intensity vanished, making him seem as if he were but a shell of his former hostility. “It hurts.” His murmur was hoarse, “How are they?” 

Mingyu moved to fetch some water from a nearby sink, the curtain opening wide enough for Wonwoo to study his movements. When he returned, Mingyu was unsure of what exactly he should do with himself, and opted for standing a few respectful feet back after setting the glass by Wonwoo’s bed side. “Soonyoung and Jihoon are still sleeping. They have some fractures, Soonyoung’s nose is broken, and they’re severely dehydrated, but they’re expected to make a full recovery,” 

Wonwoo nodded, a strange haziness to his demeanor as he peeked under the sheets that covered him. “I still have legs,” 

“Second degree burns,” Mingyu had been present during the medical evaluation, a strange sort of desperation to know how severe Wonwoo’s injuries were had him inquiring, “They should heal in a little over three weeks. You’ll have some discoloration, but your legs will be fine,” 

The image of Wonwoo’s burnt, gored legs sent chills breaking along Mingyu’s spine. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, his pulse racing slightly. He had been prepared for a curt thanks or a short comment, but he hadn’t been anticipating Wonwoo being so unguarded as he studied Mingyu blankly. 

“Why did you do it?” It was small, lacking in any sort of mockery, and Mingyu was cautious, because in all of their quips and strange conversings, Wonwoo had never seemed so genuinely curious without reeling in silent judgements. 

“I don’t know.” Mingyu had racked his brain for several hours now, checking every crevice, searching every corner of his brain for a reasonable answer aside from the fact that he didn’t want Wonwoo to die. He could have peered over the edge of the flooring, retracted himself after realizing that it was no one he would have been concerned for, and then left Wonwoo to his fiery devastation. 

They weren’t friends, and their ploy of being allies was only for each group’s benefit. In the grand scheme of things, it would have been easier if Mingyu had allowed Wonwoo be scorched by flames, reduced to ashes, solving one of many of their problems. 

But Mingyu couldn’t. He couldn’t force himself away once Wonwoo’s skin had felt so warm beneath his fingertips, so alive, couldn’t simply release him when he had opened his eyes with an almost childlike astonishment that someone kept him tethered, kept him breathing. 

“You could have died.” It was almost as though Wonwoo was holding his breath, was awaiting some kind of revelation that it was all some kind of joke, because surely Kim Mingyu wouldn’t have pitted himself against death for Wonwoo’s wellbeing. 

Mingyu had, though-- and he couldn’t find a sliver of regret sitting inside of him. Seeing Seokmin and Soonyoung bursting into tears of relief as Wonwoo arrived on his shoulders forced Mingyu to acknowledge that despite their differences and standoffish encounters, there was a part of him that was greatly unsettled at the thought of Wonwoo’s death. 

And maybe that’s why Mingyu was still speaking to him in the late hours of the night, because he had a yearning to understand the antagonistic figure that had plagued his thoughts for weeks. 

“Yeah,” Mingyu nodded, breathless, “I could have,” 

There was a pause, uncomfortable and heavy, before Mingyu hesitantly interrupted the silence. “I thought about something you said,” 

Wonwoo arched a brow, a ghost of a wry smile flitting across his current corpse like features. “What would that be?” 

It had been troubling Mingyu for some time now, and even if mentioning it may be futile, he needed the confirmation. “It was Hansol that let you into the casino, right?” 

Something indecipherable fixed itself into Wonwoo’s pointed gaze, uprooting Mingyu’s confidence. Wonwoo sounded almost disapproving as his hushed answer fell between them, “It was,” 

Mingyu felt as though the air in his lungs had been stolen, the room suddenly much smaller than it had been before, a stabbing pain running through his chest as he whispered, “Why?” 

“Hansol came to Korea in hopes of living,” Mingyu tensed at the reminder that their pasts were a well known topic amongst the Spades, “We gave him something that would make him feel alive,” 

Mingyu choked, “You gave him drugs?” 

Wonwoo froze, momentarily affronted before a dry laugh fell from his lips; only having a hint of offense, and Mingyu wondered why that sound affected him so. 

“No, Mingyu, we didn’t give him drugs. We had someone befriend him,” Wonwoo’s brief bemused display dissolved into something more stony, more familiar. “We lied to him and betrayed him, Mingyu. When I said that your friends weren’t perfect, I meant it, but I said it to make you doubt them.” He was unapologetic, and even if Mingyu had been well aware of Wonwoo’s original intentions, it hadn’t changed the fact that he had finally come to understand what it was that had set everything into motion. 

Mingyu chose to ignore his remark, feeling something stirring in his chest. Hansol would have never deliberately put them into this situation, but his naivety had affected them in ways that couldn’t be reversed, consequences weighing down on their shoulders so heavily that Mingyu feared they would eventually buckle under the pressure of it all.

“Mingyu.” Wonwoo spoke his name with deliberation, something Mingyu was unused to. “What you choose to do with that information is your business. But it’ll be a pain in everyone’s ass if you bring it up now,” 

Mingyu’s brows furrowed, the urge to pull at his hair growing stronger. “I can’t just lie. They all have a right to know,” 

“It accomplishes nothing. It will set everyone back, including us. It wasn’t my problem before, so it didn’t matter,” Wonwoo winced as he readjusted, bringing himself forward as he pinned Mingyu under the intensity of his fixated stare. It was unlike his presence before, it was intense in it’s vulnerability, intense because no longer was Wonwoo hiding behind sneers and jibes, he spoke with open comments and doubts and even if they weren’t wanted it still made something in Mingyu feel strange, because every time he believed himself to have figured out who exactly Wonwoo was, it was as if he demolished every previous notion again and again. 

“But it doesn’t just affect you anymore.” Wonwoo regarded him with open calculation, as if he himself was doubtful of his own words reaching Mingyu anytime soon.

“It won’t change the past, Mingyu. It’ll change how we move forward, and we can’t afford that,” 

Mingyu supposed, that in his own way, Wonwoo was attempting to thank him by suddenly relaying his philosophical viewpoint on time. He was allowing the decision to be Mingyu’s alone, to lay out his cards openly and allow them to be taken by Mingyu’s hand. It would be chaos, if the news came to light, that it had been one of their closest who had sabotaged them from the very beginning.

Mingyu hadn’t been so confident that it would have accomplished much, but he had been so confident that the others had deserved to know. The cost hadn’t mattered, what happened after couldn’t be compared to the hurt and confusion Mingyu had endured upon the pieces having aligned to relay a more fitting, unpleasant picture. 

There had been a part of Mingyu that had wanted the others to feel the same, to feel his betrayal, his resentment. 

Maybe he had cowered behind the truth by proclaiming that it was what they deserved, that it was for them, when in reality, maybe it had been for no one.   
No, that was wrong-- maybe it had just been for Mingyu. 

It was Mingyu’s duty to protect Seungcheol. From his father, from his family, from any outsider that may cross their paths. 

If Hansol’s actions were revealed, it may very well prove to destroy what bonds they had managed to secure. 

Mingyu didn’t want to witness his friend’s ruin, detested the idea that perhaps it would fall apart at his bitter lips and foolish words, that Seungcheol’s chances of ruling would be snatched away by his own devastated hands-- realizing that the only figures he could trust had cost him everything could be the very act that sent him over the edge, that turned Seungcheol into ruthless, distrusting men like his father, who had no friends, only those beneath him. 

Mingyu was supposed to protect Seungcheol. 

But he had never been forced to question just whether or not Seungcheol needed to be protected from himself. 

 

Junhui probably shouldn’t have been where he was. 

Their first priority had been to successfully complete their rescue mission, and now that their original goal had been accomplished, it led him out onto back alleyways and familiar, shady routes. After all, they needed inside information now more than ever, and Junhui supposed that he had a few connections he could take advantage of. 

After Junhui had been sold and trafficked, he had worked in drug shipments and makings, living in a state of constant fear and apprehension, tirelessly scurrying about to avoid beatings and the men who occasionally came in and pulled children away by dozens-- Junhui knew better now, that those kids had been forced into horrible acts of submission for their own survival. 

At the time, however, he had envied their tearful pleas and trembling frames; because Junhui was all too aware of the fact that he would do anything if it meant freedom. And slowly, as his suffering took root into loathing, Junhui had crept upon an unsuspecting man who was snoring in his chair, a man that engraved his hatred into Junhui’s skin with bruises and batterings-- and before he could truly register the move of his hand and the glinting of a dirtied glass shard in his grasp, there was blood coating the man’s throat, wretched choking filling in the silence of midnight sleeping and soft, innocent whimpers. 

Junhui could still recall the hurried rushing of footsteps, how he had attempted to escape, to slip by their burly frames, only to have the collar of his shirt tugged backward and cold steel pressing into his temple. 

There must have been something within his gaze that the man recognized. The emptiness, the maroon slicking his fingers and staining his shirt, the widened eyes haunted by a lack of remorse. The hazy, distant smile along his face.

There must have been something within his gaze that hinted at Junhui’s potential as a killer. 

And here he was, all those years later, piddling about in the late hours of the night for the sake of the organization that deprived him of his innocence and shaped him into the unflinching hitman he was. And how interesting it was, to think that those closest to him enforced these things for other children much like him, to think that he worked under an heir whose empire was built along the true efforts of those who were but the dirt he walked upon. 

Junhui hadn’t dabbled in the underground drug world management since his current employment-- he much preferred exploring of his own accord, of entering and exiting as the shadow along the wall, hearing, knowing, whispering. 

It was an abandoned place, unlike what Junhui usually visited, not hidden in plain sight, not hidden at all. Sitting in rotting glory, a holding center for transportation. Junhui knew it’s manager well, had more than one encounter with his men, had more than one target on his back from many. 

He had proven resourceful enough to maintain his head atop his shoulders, which in turn had made Junhui’s life much easier, even more so when the clients he wished to be killed were handed to him in files so neatly printed. 

Junhui let himself in, refusing to mistake the apparent desertion as evidence that the warehouse had been closed. His entrance through a busted window had been difficult, but Junhui had managed worse. 

“Min Yoongi,” Junhui yawned, “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling,” 

There was a brief shuffling, before a familiar, disgruntled face emerged from behind some stacked boxes. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

Junhui made himself comfortable, climbing upon a few shipping containers before he found one that was particularly sturdy. “I’m happy to see that you’re alive, too,” Junhui perched his face along his hand, “Seeing as we’re currently blacklisted, it’s been hard to find information these days,” 

“Jesus Christ. If anyone finds out that you even came in this general direction they’ll shoot me on sight,” 

“Why haven’t they?” Junhui hummed, his eyes glinting. “I thought that our deals had been recorded. I’d imagine that all of our business partners would have been searched and demoted by now,” 

Yoongi glared at him, unimpressed. “If you’re here to accuse me of false record keeping, then you’re not the first. I did what I had to do to keep my position,” 

Junhui’s grin never dropped as he pressed, “Who’s helping you?”

Min Yoongi had acquired his current position through many deals and many backhanded moves. He was a man of strategy, unafraid of betrayal, and certainly unafraid of death. However, there had always been that vague something that had bothered Junhui-- how he managed his killings of subordinates without being caught, how he effortlessly ensured that those who challenged him were dealt with so smoothly. He wasn’t born into the Blackjacks, and his familial ties were weak within the empire itself. There was something else there, something lingering just beyond what was seen and what was acted upon. 

Anyone who was going against the will of Mr. Choi was an ally to them. If Junhui could wrestle out a name, an organization, a family; then perhaps they still stood a chance. 

“A lot of people are helping me. You used to be one of them, before Seungcheol resorted to terrorism,” Yoongi’s retort was icy, but more than that, it was completely confusing, because Junhui hadn’t the slightest idea of what he was mentioning. 

Oh, wait. Maybe he did. 

The attack on the casino had been painted among the public as an isolated incident, but as their missions continued, they became more destructive in hopes of showing that Seungcheol wasn’t defeated, that their future heir still had the resources to rise in power as they specifically targeted buildings associated with only his father’s name. When you owned the media, facts tended to get twisted and warped into however you wished others to perceive them-- regardless of that, the message was entirely clear no matter how low ranking you may fall. 

Choi Seungcheol had every intention to continue to work against his father as the head of the Blackjacks. 

Junhui decided that playing along would be the best tactic, for now. It would be dangerous for not only himself, but Yoongi as well, if he allowed something to slip. “I find that ‘terrorism’ is a bit…” he trailed off, making a show of his gestures in place of a suitable word, “Personally, I prefer the phrase ‘violent reaffirmations’.” 

Yoongi scoffed, his brows furrowing as he walked the length of the room. “You didn’t have to kill those families, though. Their connection was weak,” 

Junhui fought against the quickening of his heartbeat. Seungcheol would never resort to the slaughter of entire families, specifically ones that weren’t directly opposing him. 

This left them with only a few options-- firstly, his father was committing acts in his name for the sake of winning over any lingering supporters, or perhaps as a warning to those who were still verbal regarding their hesitance to trust him and Seungcheol’s name was being used as a means of sweeping everything under lies and poor revenge. 

There was a slim chance that the killings had been in Seungcheol’s defense, someone taking it upon themselves to act on his behalf while he was weakened. Junhui found that this wasn’t very likely, since they hadn’t managed to regain a formidable stance against his father-- not many would take the chance to bet on Seungcheol’s chances, not until there was another power shift. That would be the prime time for allies and quiet murders, not now, when they were still in hiding. 

Junhui swallowed. That left him with his first suspicion, then. 

But there was a strange feeling that made him reconsider. 

If this was the work of Seungcheol’s father, then he would want as many of their followers as possible to have knowledge of the incident to sabotage Seungcheol’s name-- but if this information was being so easily spread, then why was it that Namjoon had failed to address it? 

“We will do whatever is necessary to put Seungcheol back in his rightful position.” Junhui hopped down, the impact of his landing sending a satisfying, brief shock up his legs. His eyes met Yoongi’s, pointed, “Thank you for your time, Yoongi, but you’ve wasted mine.” He grinned, carelessly draping his arms around the older’s shoulder, rendering him frozen in uncomfortable rigidity. “I trust that you’ll be able to find me when you’re ready to help,”

Yoongi was scowling by the time their frames were separated, “Don’t come back until the price on your head is reduced by at least five hundred thousand,” 

Junhui blinked, pausing his retreat. “What is it now?” 

“Get out.” 

Junhui left happily, because despite his newfound entail being extremely burdening, it would seem that Min Yoongi could prove to be more useful than he had previously hoped. 

Because if Namjoon had neglected to keep them updated, then it meant that he had other plans aside from assisting Seungcheol in ruling, or in killing his father and defeating his political opposition. 

There was something else, though. When confronted with someone who was currently blacklisted, it was only common sense to avoid mentioning their alleged activities in case of treason-- even if a crime or an incident didn’t happen as those in power wish you to believe, to question them even in private was grounds for execution, especially with sensitive matters such as heirs and ruling in general. It was impossible to be able to decipher who was working against you, what with sides constantly being switched and people only working towards shifting goals. 

Yoongi wasn’t a thoughtless man. Despite not having any use for Junhui himself, mentioning the families as he did had been careless at best. 

And while Junhui had originally made his visits in hopes of uncovering a potential ally, perhaps he had pieced together something far more valuable. 

 

It was late into the evening, but the knocking on Hansol’s door persisted, and he couldn’t quite shake the guilt of ignoring the sound until weakened morning light came filtering in through his parted curtains. 

It was strange, how even as he managed to lumber clumsily about with sleep still encasing his thoughts and movements, his stomach still bunched into knots, because with every midnight interruption came the chance of death, the news of it, or grave faces and sweaty palms. 

When Hansol peeked gently into the shadowed corridor, he hadn’t been expecting Mingyu to be staring at him with such intensity. 

Mingyu had promised to continue their former conversation upon a later time, and it appeared that his promise had every intention to be fulfilled, just as Hansol had suspected. 

He couldn’t hide behind Jisoo’s clever wits and improvised plans forever. This burden he carried as the catalyst for his friend’s universal misery haunted his sleep and tainted his thoughts, until he was nothing more than the pawn the Spade’s had proved him to be. 

This was what he had brought upon himself, and so against his better judgement and the voice in his head that resembled his cousin quite strongly, Hansol silently removed himself from the doorway, allowing a somber face to corner him against the quiet creak of hinges and wood. 

Hansol inhaled shakily and waited, waited for the curses and confessions of hatred to leave Mingyu’s lips. Waited for the revelation that he would be leaving immediately, that he wasn’t welcomed any longer. 

Hansol couldn’t let the stinging of his eyes and the trembling of his lip better him, those tears weren’t his to release, the sadness he felt was so overwhelming, but so justified, and the fact that Mingyu managed to approach him so easily may have been what pushed him to end it all. 

Hansol was so tired of waiting for the ending that would be the same no matter how much he managed to prolong it. 

“Mingyu--” He croaked, loathing the way his voice caved, hating the helpless dread that stole away his composure. 

“Let me talk first.” It was only then that Hansol allowed his gaze to wander up from the carpeted flooring and up to the presence that always slightly towered over, his clothes wrinkled, his hair in utter disarray. Mingyu exhaled slowly, “I know what happened,” 

Hansol felt as though his knees might buckle beneath him. 

Upon the sudden realization that Hansol’s world was ending, Mingyu hurriedly placed his hands in front of him, keeping the younger steady on his feet. “Shit. Sorry, I-- I shouldn’t have started that way,” His eyes were searching, lacking in the hatred Hansol was so sure he would find hidden. “I know what happened. But,” Mingyu was gnawing his lip, his brow furrowed in concentration, conflicted. “But bringing it up now could kill us. So I’m not going to-- but you have to promise me something,” 

Hansol couldn’t breathe, because it had to be a joke, something cruel; because this wasn’t the outcome he had pictured so perfectly. 

This wasn’t the justice he knew he deserved. 

“What?” It was weak, stunned, and Hansol simply couldn’t find the sentences he needed to make Mingyu understand that no, this was what they needed, it had been him all along. 

It had always been him. 

“Promise me that when this is all over, you’ll tell everyone what happened that night. They have the right to know that much.” Mingyu pulled his shaking frame closer suddenly, engulfing Hansol’s crumbling state of mind with tight limbs and stern words. “And for fuck’s sake, Hansol, we’re brothers. If something’s going on, tell us. If you’ve done something wrong, tell us. We have to trust each other,” Mingyu pulled back, his arms dropping to his side, “We’re all that we have.”

The restraint that Hansol had managed was torn away, and suddenly he couldn’t stop the wetness of his cheeks or the cries that racked his throat and weakened his limbs until he was being held up in Mingyu’s arms, the apologies he owed so desperately stuck in the sobs he struggled against. 

It was terrifying, knowing that the day would come where all of his mistakes would be secrets no longer, wouldn’t be his thoughts to replay, wouldn’t be his actions to regret in silence. They would know that it had been him alone who had cast the die, who had lost Seungcheol his best chance. 

“It wasn’t just you, you know.” Mingyu murmured, “If it hadn’t been you, they would’ve found another way. I’m sure of it,” 

And maybe something in Hansol broke again, because he wishes that it had been anyone else. A security guard, a prostitute working the bar-- anyone. It could have been anyone. 

But it had been Hansol. And with his remorse now shared between more than just himself, it would seem that there was only a singular option remaining. 

Seungcheol would reclaim his what was his by right and birth alone, would leave all of his enemies shattered and bleeding, crumpled beneath him as the nothings they were. He would ascend, he would be better than anything the Blackjacks had encountered before because Hansol had seen it, and believed it, even after he forced himself to stop believing in anyone or anything. There was Seungcheol, the definition of power, but not inherently cruel, ruthless, but only when the circumstances proved it needed. 

Seungcheol had to lead. 

Because Hansol could never live with himself if he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m,, so sorry. This fic does deal with darker subjects, and this chapter most likely won’t be the last to really delve into them and how they’ve affected everyone. 
> 
> That being said, I really enjoyed writing this chapter because I feel like it’s really starting to progress the major plot and all of the relationships. I didn’t get to include every ship this time, but you’ll see more of what’s not included later :) 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I love getting feedback, and criticism is always appreciated. Thank you again <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Referenced sexual content**
> 
> Soonyoung, Minghao and Seungkwan fall victim to their weaknesses.

It felt as though time was sifting through his fingers. 

He and was in and out of consciousness, seeing faces distorted with fear long forgotten, hearing screams so vivid he believed them to be present. 

Soonyoung was jolting restlessly about, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, the dull white sheets clinging to his frame as he bolted upright, panting, disoriented. 

And for a terrifying moment, Soonyoung believed himself to still be bound by tightened ropes, confined into a small metallic room with the taste of blood along his tongue and pain on his mind. 

But then there was a hand on his arm, squeezing gently, forcing Soonyoung to breathe deeply as his wide eyes studied the room around him-- images of flashing warmth and heat brought forth the memories of recent events; and he finally stilled. 

“Jeonghan.” Soonyoung’s voice was still raspy from his own screams, taking a nasally tone due to the bandages suffocating the bridge of his nose. Fluids entered his body through needles, and he felt the weight of attempting to thrash about so suddenly, painful jolts eliciting winces as he gritted his teeth against the throbbing. 

His leader’s observing was pensive, his knuckles white, his fingers still skimming along the length of Soonyoung’s arm, pausing, hovering over the area of his wrist bruised and raw from his capture. “I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner.” His murmur was hushed, the red, swollen skin around his eyes and the guilt encasing his words being the only hint of Jeonghan’s grief. He was unlike Soonyoung, able to contain, able to control and remain composed. 

“Don’t be. If it wasn’t for Chan’s tracking device we’d probably still be there,” Soonyoung strained, attempting to smile, but it hurt. “What time is it? Where is everyone?” 

Jeonghan seemed perpetually exhausted, running a stressed hand through mangled brown locks, aiming to seem unaffected by his apparent lack of rest. “It’s almost six in the morning. I’m sure you’ll have more visitors soon,” 

“What have you guys done while Jihoon and I were gone?” Soonyoung was skeptical of them having accomplished anything other than their return, and it felt wrong, because his life wasn’t important enough for their entire mission to be put on pause for his benefit. 

Jeonghan must have detected his displeasure, because his eyes narrowed. “Don’t say it like that,” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re a bother. You’re important, Soonyoung.” The phrase ‘you’re my responsibility’ was left unsaid, but the overall meaning was still very much felt. Jeonghan had an irking tendency to shoulder blame for the general misfortune of the Spades, for no reason other than the fact that he was the thread that wove them together, that stitched their bloody hearts and open wounds, that sewed them into mismatched patterns of patchy unity. 

Despite being a cunning man who could calculate and strategize with all the coldness of his harsh upbringing, Jeonghan held a heart that was constantly swelling. He cared, too much for Soonyoung to ignore, and it marked his face as the frown upon his lips and the slump of his posture. “You know that all of us are prepared to die for this. Jihoon and I, we’re the same. We both wanted to escape, but we knew that we probably wouldn’t,”

Jeonghan bit back a comment, his eyes piercing. “There’s a lot to talk about. But your first priority is rest,” 

The words nearly sent Soonyoung spiralling back into his strange shifting time loop, because the words Jeonghan spoke so surely resembled sentences past spoken with such accuracy it made him shudder. 

Soonyoung had been deliberately stepping on the toes of the Blackjacks for several months before they found him at long last, sending bullets breaking his skin and blood seeping through open wounds. Jeonghan wasn’t a nurse, but he had managed to find a crippled heap of blood and death just around his doorstep, and suddenly Soonyoung was nursed back to his health in the musty den of what was clearly an illegal sex ring. 

He could picture Jeonghan’s bruised limbs and constant discomfort, and when Soonyoung realized that he was working extra if only to be able to share his space there was something in Soonyoung that snapped. He wanted more than petty vengeance, he craved for blood, longed to set the entire Blackjack dynasty ablaze. 

The Spades were born that night, within the tragedies it implemented and the spirits it broke they shared whispers of plots and targets, formed lists of the hated and the evil, and even if they were self righteous and hypocritical at best; Soonyoung refused them to be lesser than the wealthy influencers who placed bets on lives that weren’t theirs to toy with. 

Jeonghan’s hair had reached his shoulders upon their original meeting, but those words, his demeanor, his strength-- it was all still truly the same. 

“Fine. Have it your way. I’ll rest-- it’s not like you’d let me walk out of here anyway.” Soonyoung sighed, his gaze shifting over to the smaller frame sleeping soundly to his right, one that he admittedly detested less than he should. 

Soonyoung had known, somewhere inside of him, that he would have to hurt people who weren’t necessarily bad. That in order to preserve the life of someone he cared deeply for, he may have to take and steal and lie. It was a truth to the world, to his profession. It only attested to his determination, not his character, and Soonyoung had learned to separate himself from his work long before Jeonghan’s name had ever even touched upon his lips. 

It was much harder to feel that same distance when they had suffered together, when they had lived and died and breathed together all the same with only a few looks and shared blows. 

Soonyoung swallowed, turning to face his friend yet again, only to be faced with a blank expression and an indecipherable emotion flitting just below the surface. 

Jeonghan decided not to press. Which was admittedly rather unlike him, but Soonyoung supposed that he could sympathize with their situation without voicing said sympathies. It wasn’t as if Soonyoung had ever allowed anything to interfere with his goals and aspirations, and this strange, unforeseen obstacle wouldn’t change that. 

Lee Jihoon wouldn’t change that. 

“I’m fine, you know. You can go up and sleep,” Soonyoung stifled a yawn, guilty, fighting between his urge to fall back into unpleasant dreams and his desire to keep Jeonghan company, as he deserved. 

“I have no desire to let the guard outside escort me back to my room--I barely managed to evade him last night.” Jeonghan smiled, thin lipped, wry amusement clinging to his dripping sarcasm, “Since clearly my only purpose here is obviously to destroy the place. A former whore has all sorts of lovely estates to hide in, so why not?” 

Soonyoung chuckled despite himself. “I hate it when you say that,” 

Jeonghan, for what was likely not going to be the last time, simply rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing personal, Soonie. Just a fact,” He shrugged, standing to stretch, and if Soonyoung hadn’t been so well acquainted with Jeonghan’s subtly, he would have missed the way his eyes scanned over his frame, swift and brief, settling upon the bags that contained the names of long fluids Soonyoug didn’t care enough to memorize. 

For someone so perceptive and so cunning, it seemed that Jeonghan still had yet to admit his most vulnerable weakness to himself.  
Jeonghan would do anything for those he cared for, even if it meant destroying himself in the process. But Soonyoung chose to digress from this particular train of thinking, more so for himself than Jeonghan, because he had never been gifted when it came to holding his tongue. And as Minghao so graciously reminded him whenever he delved into the topic, it wasn’t their life to live, and it wasn’t their job to try and correct Jeonghan’s idiosyncrasies. 

He wasn’t a child or God to be fawned over, Jeonghan was just Jeonghan; and even if Soonyoung feared the amount of pressure he so willingly shouldered, he knew better than to attempt to take it away, because in the end, it was what Jeonghan was accustomed to. 

Jeonghan wouldn’t have liked things any other way. 

“Jeonghan, you look like shit. If you don’t go I’ll yell and have the guard search your room for cocaine,” Soonyoung smirked, the corners of his lips curving upward easily at the scowl that donned his friend’s face. “What? You don’t think he’ll believe the poor, bedridden patient? ‘Oh, sir, come quick! He’s got powder on his nose, he might just go crazy!’” 

“You’re the absolute worst. I despise you,” Jeonghan’s scathing insults were less hurtful when his tone was so devoid of anger, just slightly dripping with open betrayal as he gathered himself and progressed to the infirmary’s entrance, halting his movements briefly, “I’ll be back by nine. Don’t get mad when the nurse tries to change your bandages. If it embarasses you then have Seungkwan do it instead,” 

Jeonghan knew them far too well, surpassing what was probably appropriate. Soonyoung sniffed, “I can change them myself,” 

The sound of retreating footsteps and a closing door was his only reply, the heavy silence of the room growing greater still against the weight of Soonyoung’s thoughts. He had always hated the feeling of being helpless, trapped. Never wanted to stop moving, always yearned for progress and action. 

Wonwoo may have had the right idea when he insisted Soonyoung take up reading all those weeks ago. 

And that left Soonyoung with another subject to ponder over and another face to worry about, and even as he felt his lashes begin to flutter against his cheeks and the world begin to shift, he still couldn’t quite admit to himself that Wonwoo had almost been eternally lost forever. 

It would seem that Jeonghan wasn’t the only one who ignored his weaknesses. Jeonghan cared, and Jeonghan acted and hid around goals and aims but in reality, he only wanted the best for people. 

Soonyoung didn’t care about the general populace. It had always been far more personal, even from the start. 

But Soonyoung bonded easily, especially with those he trusted. He had always been prepared for his own demise, always taking his death into open consideration with every job he took. And he had known that the chances of the others dying had always been just as likely, just as easily pictured. 

He had never considered what might happen after, though. 

Soonyoung was weak, not because he didn’t know the truth, but because he pretended he didn’t. 

Trapped in between the remnants of his firey pain and stinging smoke, Soonyoung ignored the beating of his heart and the flushing of his face whenever his thoughts drifted to sharp words and a small stature. 

Soonyoung was weak, not because he didn’t know the truth, but because for the first time in his life; he didn’t know if he could act against it. 

 

It had been after his visitation with those currently occupying the infirmary that Minghao found himself peering about, unsure of what he was searching for, but knowing that perhaps there was something valuable to be found. 

It was brimming just below the surface; a connection of ideas, an afterthought of emotions and a warning of dangerous thoughts that would more likely than not end with Minghao in a compromising situation. 

He had an urge to know, to contain facts within him, to feel and touch and simply be with the varying realities that condensed their being. 

In other words, Minghao didn’t trust their hosts, not in the slightest. He had been unwilling to jeopardize their position before by snooping about, but seeing as how Namjoon was busy with conference calls and sending his men out by the fives, he decided that the best time for probing would be when everyone was perpetually exhausted and unwilling to stick to their everyday protocol. 

Minghao was placing far too much faith in the hope that Namjoon’s men would be tiring-- that was something he couldn’t ignore. But as he neared the wings and locked rooms they had been advised not to touch, he found himself growing more and more curious. The repercussions of having been reduced to constant watching was affecting him greatly, and seeing as though it would do him more harm to be caught suspiciously during the night, it seemed that the daylight would be his only choice. 

Minghao was only doing his job. He killed, but he also collected, and so despite his knowing better, he continued. 

Minghao heard the sound of steps bustling about, forcing himself backwards as he pressed himself up against a wall, squeezing tightly to fit behind a statue of the Virgin Mary holding her fallen son. 

“Tell me about their condition.” It was a familiar voice that made Minghao’s insides twist in discomfort, the sounds of idle conversation drifting close enough for Minghao to be able to distinguish murmurs between the chafing of suits and the patter of designer shoes. 

“They’re all stable, sir. Haseul said that she’s been monitoring them closely,” 

Kim Namjoon hummed in response, his shadow looming just over where Minghao had decided to crouch. “And the preparations? Has everything been readied?” 

“Seokjin mentioned that the only thing he’d prefer waiting on is timing. Yoongi reported that Wen Junhui visited him, and he dropped hints, but nothing else has been confirmed,” 

The second presence carried himself with a youthful tone, words spoken with admiration as they continued, their voices beginning to drift, blurring together as mumbles against walls and dull whisperings. 

“And what do you think, Jungkook? Do you think that we should wait?” There was a pause that flitted between the two men, the former seemingly deep in thought as the restless movements and fidgets came to a halt. 

“They’re vulnerable. They’re starting to suspect like you wanted, but Seokjin may be right about waiting. We haven’t received word from Jimin about Mrs. Park yet,” 

Minghao could picture the dangerous glint of Namjoon’s smile even as his vision was obscured. “My thinking exactly. Let’s wait until one of them finally breaks, and then give him the ultimatum--you’re a natural, Kook. Taehyung was right to transfer you to me before this started,” 

As their volumes decreased and their footsteps descended, Minghao felt the beating of his heart fluttering rapidly in his chest. There had been a lingering suspicion that it had come too easily, but Seungkwan had dismissed it as simply being the pessimist rooted deeply inside of him, steering his thoughts away from reality.  
Regardless of whatever truth may be coated in his words, Minghao was unabashedly irked. Kim Namjoon was hiding something, something that it seemed Seungcheol himself had yet to decipher. 

Perhaps he should have fought harder against his traffickers to stay in China, because he was utterly sickened by every twist and every newfound obstacle that doubled with every passing day. 

There was a shifting beside him, hot breath tickling his ear. “It’s troubling, isn’t it?”

Minghao had quite nearly startled out of his skin as he turned to glare reproachfully at the face behind him, the only other presence residing in the estate who was capable of walking without his movements announcing his location. 

“How long have you been there?” 

Junhui shrugged, a playful glimmer to his nonchalance. “I followed you here.” His eyes strayed to where their host had stood only moments before, adopting a more thoughtful tone as he accessed, “I was right, then. They’re planning something,” 

“Who did you visit?” Minghao swat away the hand that had offered itself, perfectly content with standing and following Junhui down a more familiar hall without the extra assistance. 

Junhui hummed, “Just an old friend.” He tugged gently on Minghao’s wrist, pulling his frame closer until they were in another room altogether; and Minghao felt a creeping sense of envy at the empty space that could have been occupied by a guard, but wasn’t; because apparently the Blackjacks were trusted enough to be treated as adults. “Although, he mentioned something about low ranking families being killed.” 

Minghao nearly choked, feeling as though he were being dragged out of his element from the sudden change of atmosphere accompanied by such startling news being delivered without so much as a falter. “What?” 

“Exactly.” Junhui sprawled lazily along his bed, his fingers still loosely tethered to Minghao’s own. “It was obviously on purpose. I didn’t know why he wanted me to know, but I guess he’s Namjoon’s subordinate,” 

A feeling of dread enveloped Minghao ruthlessly, stealing his breath, leaving him gasping. “What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that they’re manipulating us. They want us to do something,” Junhui’s grip was slowly inching Minghao closer, the latter still reeling, still uncertain. “And I’m telling you because if I tell anyone else, they’ll do something-- which may be what they want,”  
There was something warm sending sparks alight underneath the skin Junhui was caressing so carelessly-- and for a moment, Minghao forgot about the pressing urgency of matters that needed to be dealt with, allowed himself to succumb to whatever pull, whatever flippant wish of his he craved to be fulfilled. 

Minghao hesitated. “So you’re saying we should do nothing,-- at least until we know more about what’s going on,” 

Junhui’s stare was too intense for Minghao’s liking. “Correct.” There was a firmness along his hip, a fluttering against his knuckles and Junhui was close, so close, and Minghao found that while it set his insides into a churning mess, he didn’t particularly dislike the proximity. 

“Junhui.” Minghao placed a stern hand on his chest, steadying them both. “This is dangerous,” 

“Life is dangerous.” Junhui’s smirk settled into something more subdued, steely and serious, his volume but a whisper. “You may have to leave soon.” He buried his face into the crook of Minghao’s neck, his lips feather light against his exposed skin. “And if you do, we may never see each other again,” 

Minghao inhaled slowly, despising the way his chest clenched painfully at the notion. The Spades were likely in danger, as well as Junhui himself, and the last thing that would progress the situation would be Minghao falling victim to his sudden attachment. 

Still, Junhui’s face had been an ever persistent one in the chaotic weeks that had passed, and even if Minghao greatly resented the prospect of him being even slightly enamored; it would seem that his mind and the racing of his heart were both at odds to betray him. 

Wen Junhui was strange and carefree, his gaze was like the sun scorching Minghao’s insides and he longed to understand, to break it all apart and analyze, to put things into place because knowledge was power, knowledge was survival, and maybe the overwhelming urge to piece things together had only been developed because Minghao was afraid of being broken.

But if he did the breaking, if he was the perpetrator, the assailant hiding behind darkened shadows and the lingering hatred of others, then maybe he could find purpose in the world’s misgivings. 

There was a startling truth to Junhui’s words. They were pawns, all of them, and until there was a true fight at hand, they could only do so much. 

Junhui was open in his gaze, honest, always so frustratingly unabashed, and Minghao could feel the heat flushing his face and sending thrills down his spine.  
And then Minghao was chasing the sensation of Junhui’s lips moving against his, of soft strands beneath his fingers, of Junhui’s grip steadying them both as Minghao allowed himself to be lost within his touch. 

And with Junhui, Minghao felt that maybe, just maybe, a day would come where he could afford to be whole again.

Minghao surrendered himself to the heat burning up inside of him, allowed himself to forget responsibility if only this once because Junhui’s lips trailing along exposed skin was too much, everything was always too much; and Minghao just wanted to release the tension building steadily inside of him. 

The warmth was dizzying, the sensation of fingernails and low breaths against his neck reducing Minghao to nothing but quivering pants and low, trembling whines, until the only word on his tongue was Junhui’s name, until all he could feel was the sparking of pleasure simmering with every snap of Junhui’s hips.

And for a brief moment, Minghao slipped; forgetting that this was a goodbye, forgetting that he couldn’t lose himself in the intensity, couldn’t allow himself to drown within Junhui’s sweet praises that tickled his ear, couldn’t fall too deeply within those sweet strokes and tender kisses. 

Minghao slipped; and maybe that was why, despite the pleasure racking his body, he still found that same persistent ache in his chest. 

 

Seungkwan hadn’t properly conversed with Hansol in what felt to be a lifetime, despite their last exchange having been at the stretch of a few measly weeks. 

So much could happen in such a short amount of time. 

Seungkwan had only taken roughly four months before he had earned Hansol’s complete and utter trust-- but Hansol had only taken half that time before Seungkwan had been too intrigued for the safety of his heart. 

But when he remembered the fact that it had only taken a few short minutes before his entire family had been killed, before Seungkwan was suddenly an orphan staring at the bloodied, disfigured corpses of those he loved most; he accepted that his feelings, however strong, however distracting-- were not the most important factor to be considered. 

Time was a funny thing. Because even if Seungkwan knew that he hadn’t been acquainted with Hansol for very long in the grand scheme of things, with every small glance they shared, with every slight fidget of the other that they both equally noted, it became evident that their bond spanned deeper than that. Perhaps it was the longing, the hurt, the small midnight prayers and pillow tears that made Seungkwan cradle these thoughts so easily. 

They could never be the same. 

But Seungkwan couldn’t find it within himself to completely extinguish the hope he carried that perhaps there was still the smallest flickers of something left to ignite. 

Seungkwan remembered the brief, gentle squeeze of Hansol’s hand atop his shoulder, and found his eyes fluttering closed. 

Seungkwan had always been so, so weak. 

But he had never believed himself to be completely stupid. And yet there he was, slinking out through the door that led to a balcony located on the outside of his room, peering along the railing to see if perhaps there was a way to escape the confinement of his room and enter the mansion’s wide expanse of hallways without being spotted by the man presumably positioned outside of his door. It was frustrating, being treated as though he were a grounded teen on house arrest, but Seungkwan supposed that the reaction was somewhat warranted, given the fact that they had indeed destroyed valuable property and humiliated a mafia heir on live television. 

But, the past couldn’t be changed, and Seungkwan was tired of rethinking the same actions over and over again; it was driving him mad. He wanted to see Hansol, to discuss any chances for them, and to cut off his hopes early before they spiralled into something much more hurtful than just small fantasies of reconciliation and understanding. 

Seungkwan’s stomach flipped at the drop that presented him, and he forced his stare elsewhere, searching for any sort of ledge, but finding that the neighboring balconies were too far out of reach for any possible jumps or transfers. Seungkwan hadn’t paid any mind to where anyone other than his members and Hansol were located, and so truthfully, his balcony plan may very well prove to be a counterproductive feat-- but a feat that he will attempt nonetheless, because excuses were easily persuaded to those who were still jarred from sleep and surprised by an intruder outside of their window. 

Seungkwan’s gaze travelled upwards, and maybe, just maybe, if he stood on the balconey’s edge and stretched high enough, there was a chance he could access the room above him. The idea alone made Seungkwan nauseous, sent a cold sweat down his spine, his limbs feeling strangely heavy as his muscles twitched in preparation. 

But, well, life was short, and even shorter when one was rivalled with the most powerful crime organization across the Southeast-- and so Seungkwan ignored the flipping of his insides and the buzzing of his fragile nerves, climbing atop the delicate railing and hurriedly gripping the bars placed above his head, pulling upwards with all of his strength and casting a leg over the side, narrowly avoiding losing his hold altogether as he ungraciously collapsed onto the ground with a harrowed wheeze. 

Seungkwan felt the sheer terror steadily thrumming throughout his veins begin to subside, leaving his sweaty frame and shallow breaths to calm under the lifting weight of adrenaline. 

There was a small cough from his left, and any relief was immediately replaced with complete and utter mortification as Seungkwan met wide, cat shaped eyes observing his antics with mild surprise. 

“Seungkwan,” Jisoo seemed a bit startled, taking in Seungkwan’s state with obvious confusion. “Is there,” he blinked, a bit dazed, “Is there something you need?” 

Seungkwan debated on simply throwing himself back to where he came, wishing for nothing more than to hit the ground below and cease his painful existence. “Jisoo-- I didn’t, um, I didn’t know you’d be here, but I’ll just leave now, go back the way I came, sorry for intruding--”

“Wait,” Jisoo’s plea hushed Seungkwan’s failure of an apology, his ramblings cut short by the strange hesitation of which Jisoo spoke from, as if he were debating against himself. He sighed, “Are you going to see Hansol?” 

It felt as though Seungkwan’s entire being had been iced over, the chill numbing his thoughts as he suddenly stilled. “What?” 

Jisoo smiled, albeit a bit subdued, something akin to embarrassment flickering across his gentle profile. “Please don’t look so surprised. I do my best to watch out for him,” he paused, pulling his oversized sleepwear tighter around his frame, “Even if it means keeping secrets sometimes,” 

Seungkwan fought to keep his expression neutral. “Right. Of course,” He fiddled idly with his hands, standing up on unpleasantly shaky knees. “Was it that obvious?” 

Jisoo shook his head, “Honestly? It didn’t seem like much at first-- the meetups,” he faltered, his gentle gaze far more vulnerable than Seungkwan would have anticipated, “But things came together, eventually, as they do,” 

There was a note of defeat to his voice, a sense of sad resignation to the tilt of his head, the sagging of his shoulders. Jisoo’s smile wasn’t heartfelt, it was ingenuine, and Seungkwan felt small against the realization that someone who was once in such a position of influence could still seem so powerless. 

Before Seungkwan could voice any sort of apology for the general way Jisoo’s life had been ruined under Seungkwan’s direct influence the man spoke, a hint of something foreboding lying hidden beneath his smooth, tender voice. “Don’t apologize. I’m sure you had your reasons. God knows almost everyone has plenty, we’ve made sure of that.” He laughed, but it struck a bitter chord, humorless. 

Jisoo’s grin fell into a somber line, his tired words falling just short of a whisper, the wind ruffling his hair gently as he worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “Go see him, Seungkwan. I won’t tell,” he motioned for Seungkwan to follow, escorting him through the darkened space and to the guardless door, where his hand hesitated above the doorknob as he listened to Seungkwan’s sudden intake of air. 

“Thank you, Jisoo. Really,” Seungkwan felt guilt for what wasn’t the first time; because he hadn’t anticipated the mafia men whose lives he had tampered with to be so amicable, so human. 

Seungkwan hadn’t anticipated his vengeance being taken upon those who were the very victims he swore justice upon, hadn’t realized that the villains and heroes were all just more of the same imbalance of circumstances and survival. 

No one was ever the villain in their own story, after all. 

Jisoo faltered, “You have no need to thank me, Seungkwan.” He pushed the door open with ease, sadness striking an unfortunate echo within his words, “I have a feeling we haven’t seen the worst of this yet,” 

And before Seungkwan could question him any further, the ominous words were left hanging in the air as the door was promptly shut, sealing Seungkwan’s fate, forcing him onwards as he continued his path to a nearby stairwell, ascending quietly up two floors, and then stationing himself outside of the room he had practically dreamt of; having imagined himself in this very position countless times since their arrival. 

Seungkwan’s hand was poised for knocking, silently hoping that there wouldn’t be any sounds carrying too far in the eerie hush of abandoned corridors and numerous identical rooms when all of his anxieties surged forth at once. Hansol most likely didn’t want anything to do with him, Seungkwan was nothing to him, Seungkwan was hated by him, Hansol had just taken pity upon him to begin with, it was nothing, nothing--

Seungkwan was nothing. That’s all he had ever managed to be, and him miraculously becoming affiliated with far better people didn’t change that. 

There would never be anything that would change that. 

But Seungkwan had to hear it. He craved for Hansol’s attention, even if it was a rejection, even if it was the last words he’d ever heard from his former friend. Seungkwan craved for those eyes, to reach out and touch the tufts of hair that had a tendency to never quite be in place, and it was futile, but damn, Seungkwan was so tired of running. From himself, his fears, his resentment, his past. 

Seungkwan joined the Spades because he was tired of running. 

His fists met the polished wood with a curt knock, and Seungkwan inwardly cringed, wondering perhaps if it was too late to simply abandon his endeavors altogether when the door was shyly cracked ajar. 

A small sigh filled the space between them, “This is the second night in a row I’ve had a late night visitor,” 

Seungkwan flushed, “Ah-- sorry. I could come back another time,” His offer was dismissed as the door was opened fully, Hansol stepping out of his lingering position to eye Seungkwan fully. 

Seungkwan had missed those eyes, had missed Hansol’s voice and their bickering. 

Seungkwan had missed Hansol. 

A small bedside lamp was already casting shadows about the room, settling the atmosphere into something just short of uncomfortable; something just short of unnerving. Hansol gestured for Seungkwan to sit, taking his own space across from him at a set of chairs and a table, appropriately distant. 

“How did you get here?” Seungkwan struggled to hold his apologies, Hansol’s words were slurred by obvious exhaustion, and perhaps his presence was only continuing to add to that unpleasant feeling. 

Seungkwan shifted, unsure if he should share his encounter with Hansol’s cousin; due to the overall unnatural vulnerability of it all-- not to mention that he also had yet to uncover whether or not Hansol was aware of Jisoo’s knowledge regarding former relations, and the last thing he wanted was for their conversation to be directed into familial feuds. 

He settled for a small “I climbed,” which earned a dubious snort. 

Hansol grinned, something akin to restraint being shown in the way his eyes only seemed to follow the flickering of the dark dancing along the wall-- it appeared that his lamp’s bulb was faulty. “I kind of thought we had already worked stuff out.” 

Seungkwan had believed that to be the case as well, and yet there they sat. Hansol’s eyes narrowed, “I told you not to go to the banquet, you know.” 

Seungkwan ran a hand through ruffled hair, “I know.” he struggled to maintain the steadiness of his words, “But you took the tracker,” 

“I did.” Hansol studied the curves of the table, his leg bouncing, jittery. Seungkwan couldn’t find it in him to blame the man-- it was awkward, bordering on painful for them both; and he supposed that he should attempt to force out the words that were stuck as the lump in his throat. 

“I never got to tell you how I ended up in Seoul.” Hansol blinked, taken aback by the sudden abrupt change. 

“Neither did I.” Hansol countered immediately, “But you already knew,” 

Seungkwan inhaled sharply, “Hansol--” 

“I’ve already said that I know why you did it. I do,” Hansol’s stare pierced through the very depth of Seungkwan’s being, “We’re not good. We hurt people and we profit it from it. I know that,” His words began to waver, “But that doesn’t make it any easier, you know? That I did this to all of them. That I started this,” 

Hansol wasn’t bad-- even during the very first stages of their meetings, Seungkwan hadn’t believed him to be the kind that they were so determined to target. 

But he was affiliated, he had connections, and he was new to the world of luxury and illegal living. 

Hansol had been vulnerable, and they took advantage of it. 

“Was it hard for you?” Seungkwan watched as Hansol dug his nails into the tender flesh of his palms, his words biting. 

“Was it hard to pretend to care?” 

And there it was. 

Seungkwan had been assigned to pretend, to act out half truths and scope out the honesty of Hansol’s words, to use natural charisma to form connections and grab ahold of Hansol’s loneliness and exploit it, uncover it, leave it open and torn and bleeding. 

And, in a way, Seungkwan had achieved that goal, had acted out his role so perfectly that it became apart of him. 

Because no matter how many lies he fed himself, Seungkwan knew better than to act as though he was some master manipulator born to deceive. He couldn’t be as cunning as Jeonghan, or as clever as Chan, or as deadly as Wonwoo or Soonyoung; and he hadn’t possessed the talents Seokmin did. 

So Seungkwan connected. 

“I never pretended,” Seungkwan could feel his throat drying, “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t, but--” 

“But you had to. I know, I get it.” Hansol evaded the plea of Seungkwan’s gaze, turning his attention to the various indentions of the carpet below their feet. 

“Do you remember when I said that I grew up in Jeju?” Seungkwan couldn’t resist the hint of desperation that filled his words, because he was slipping, Hansol was defensive, rebuilding his walls higher than Seungkwan could have imagined and it hurt, and he deserved it but it hurt anyway and God, he had missed him. 

Hansol nodded, his expression forced into one of indifference, his nails tapping delicately against the table’s surface. 

“That was true. But I didn’t move to Seoul for school,” He could feel his natural volume dwindling, hated the obvious faltering of his voice. “I moved in with my grandmother after my family was killed in a driveby shooting.” 

Hansol flinched, his eyes finding Seungkwan’s immediately. “Jesus, that’s awful. I’m so sorry,” 

“They were mafia guys who shot the wrong targets. That’s what the police said,” Seungkwan sniffed, hating the hot wetness of his cheeks, the sudden blurriness of his vision. “They only got my side, but there was nothing left for me there.” 

“Seungkwan--” 

“My sisters were so smart. They were beautiful,” Seungkwan recoiled, hiding his face behind trembling fingers, “My mother was so kind.” He whispered, “And they’re gone, but I’m here. And I don’t understand why, out of all of them, it was just me,” 

“Kwannie,” Hansol stood, pushing his chair back as he approached Seungkwan, careful, gently entwining their hands. “Stop. It’s not your fault,”

“I know.” Seungkwan lowered his gaze, “But that doesn’t mean anything, really. I just,” he swallowed harshly against the painful lump lodged in his throat, “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t hurt you for nothing. It’s wasn’t just because,” 

Seungkwan stood, breaking of out Hansol’s grasp, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come,” 

“Don’t say that it doesn’t mean anything.” Hansol sighed, “Don’t act like you don’t matter,” 

And then Seungkwan was falling again, into Hansol’s kindness, into the way a single glance in Seungkwan’s direction could set the fire in his veins alight. 

It felt like their first conversation, their first meeting, with every small look and every comforting word spoken with such authenticity, and Seungkwan was weak. 

Seungkwan had always been so, so weak. 

“I missed you.” It tumbled forth from his lips without grace, falling into the void of what couldn’t be taken back, landing heavily, and Seungkwan wondered if it had really been worth the pain in his chest. 

Hansol’s breath hitched. 

“We need to be careful,” Hansol didn’t sound entirely convinced. 

Seungkwan snorted bitterly, “We’re probably going to die here anyway. Might as well be because of something worthwhile,” 

“You’re unbelievable.” The corners of Hansol’s lips lifted, “I still can’t believe you climbed to get here,” 

Seungkwan’s face reddened, “It’s not like it matters,” he huffed, simmering with flustered indignation. 

Hansol’s grin only grew further, “And are you planning on climbing back down?” 

Seungkwan blinked. 

He truthfully hadn’t expected himself to get this far, and so it seemed that the latter details of his plan hadn’t been fully developed. And in his defense, it was so incredibly easy to become distracted with Hansol’s sweet words and stable figure occupying his thoughts. 

It was even easier to become distracted when he was there in person, laying his head gently upon Seungkwan’s shoulder with his arms enveloping his frame loosely, laughing into the crook of his neck. 

Seungkwan was weak. 

But Seungkwan had never known that weakness could feel so, so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I’ve had a lot of time to write the past week, so here’s chapter 10 :) 
> 
> I hope that everyone is liking the direction of the story. Comments and criticisms are always appreciated! I love hearing your thoughts about the story so far. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jisoo is afraid, and maybe a painful goodbye is better when you’re trying to protect someone. 
> 
> Jihoon hates the light and the unwanted truths that come with it.
> 
> Junhui reels from the after effects of a night that he knew would leave him wounded. 
> 
> Seungcheol is a fool.

It was bordering on days now, and Jisoo could feel his sanity slipping through the feeble gaps of his fingers. 

He hadn’t managed a moment alone with Seungcheol in what felt to be ages, the man always being kept on his feet with some task that paled in importance compared to Jisoo’s entail, was always being seated in confidential meetings with one Kim Namjoon who had yet to truly reveal what his goals were-- who had yet to truly reveal just what he had planned for them from the very beginning. 

It was certainly on purpose. Because the problem with Jisoo’s information was that once spoken, they would be put into a situation that would lead only to blood and deceit. It was terrifying, really, to know that from the very moment news of Seungcheol’s desertion had reached every corner of the Blackjack world, that their demise had already been inevitable.

And now they were in that very standstill that prolonged it all, that left them in a stagnant, unmoving slowness that seemed to give the option of choosing between two outcomes that differed only slightly, asking to choose between being devoured by crocodiles or alligators and it was really all the same and God; how could Jisoo be the one to decide?

Jisoo couldn’t have been the only one that was being toyed with. Because the decision that had unfolded itself upon him, the variables that had come into play had yet to be acknowledged, and yet-- 

Jisoo was afraid. 

Not only afraid of the thoughts that lingered in his mind, of the choices that he would soon have to make in order to survive-- Jisoo was afraid of the choices of others, of his friends and foes alike; and most importantly--

Despite everything he had witnessed the man do, it was the first time Jisoo feared Seungcheol himself. He had an undeniable thirst for power, he was born to ascend and rule over those who were born into lesser places; and no matter the circumstance he was constantly determined to rise and crush those who put themselves as obstacles in his path. 

Jisoo could never forget the revelation of that unholy night. It stained his skin as the painful marks of her nails, it tainted his being as the satisfied gleam of her eyes as she spoke, it presented itself through him as his sleepless nights and dirty existence, of the bodies of those closest to him, lifeless, whenever he closed his eyes. 

Jisoo was dangling by the thread that had spun itself around his neck and choked him, it sliced into his skin and pooled blood beneath his feet because Jisoo was suffocating. 

He hadn’t realized just when it had become so incredibly hard to breathe through the tension of death and pain around every bleak horizon that spilled into those confining rooms, that cast shadows along those pretentious sculptures that decorated a place that felt so empty Jisoo was sure that nothing could ever seem to complete it. 

He heard him, then-- approaching with importance, believing that progress was being made against the odds that were placed so brilliantly against them. 

It was as admirable as it was unbearable, because Jisoo loathed the hope that seemed to twinkle within his friend’s familiar eyes on the notion of half truths alone. 

“Jisoo,” Seungcheol offered a greeting of surprise, not having expected the man to be lounging around the corridor in the early hours of the morning; and certainly not having expected him to look quite as polished as he did. 

Jisoo was the epitome of absence; because he was a void, a collapsing star closing in on itself and enveloping everything around him in a strange nothingness-- the feeling of something being out of place, uncertainty, and the inability to understand just what it was that began to unsettle the atmosphere without so much as a blink. 

Something dark flitted briefly across Seungcheol’s features. “I know that everyone is probably frustrated.” He paused, shifting his position as he leaned lazily against the wall, studying Jisoo beneath pointed glances. “Namjoon and I are working as closely as possible to get us to a good spot,” His voice was lowered then, doe eyes narrowing, “There’s something off, like you said. I’m trying to piece it together,” 

Jisoo peered around Seungcheol’s frame, careful to avoid arousing suspicion. He returned Seungcheol’s obvious studying with a stare of his own, nothing to provoke his friend’s pride, but enough to elicit a slightly irked, slightly curious furrowing of Seungcheol’s brow. “There’s things that you need to know. Important things, more important than anything you’ve been discussing-- but they can’t know that we’re speaking. The next time you have even a minute alone, come to me,” 

“Jisoo.” It was a warning, scathing words hidden beneath a darkened tongue. “You didn’t,” 

Jisoo did. Jisoo went against his direct orders, betrayed Seungcheol’s trust, and put him in a position that warranted punishment. 

But in the midst of chaos, one must resort to basic survival tactics-- if Jisoo was forced to disobey for Seungcheol’s safety, for all of their safety, then he would do so without regret.   
After all, a dead man has no regrets and Jisoo intends for Seungcheol to stay very much alive and breathing. 

“You’ll know where to find me,” Jisoo’s words were hushed, his absence of a denial enough for the simmering flash of Seungcheol’s anger to be unleashed with the sudden straightening of his posture and the grimace upon his face. 

“I told you not to go.” Seungcheol’s grabbed hold of Jisoo’s arms, tightly, fighting against his rattled nerves with an air of frustration. “You said you wouldn’t,” 

When his statements were met with nothing but his own pants, Seungcheol’s volume increased. “It’s not up to you to decide whether or not you feel like following direct orders.” His words were venomous, biting. “It’s not up to you to decide that you’re disposable-- Jisoo, goddamn, I thought that we had fixed this years ago!” 

Seungcheol was desperate, never having quite shaken the guilt of the entire ordeal, never quite forgiving himself for not catching Jisoo quicker. He inhaled shakily, releasing his touch along Jisoo’s arms as though it burned hot against his skin. There was a pause, something akin to bitter disappointment settling uncomfortably between them. 

Jisoo refused to waver, even as he could feel the timid trembling of his fingers against his palms. Aside from Hansol and the rest, Seungcheol was family, was the closest thing to a brother that Jisoo would ever get to experience. He was his closest friend, rescuing him from a life of dirt of bloodied fingernails to one that would never leave any of them completely satisfied; but at least, in the end, they would always be together. 

Jisoo owed Seungcheol everything-- if not for him, Jisoo most likely wouldn’t have lived to see sixteen. It was a relationship built on trust and loyalty, but one tainted with different class levels and status— but Jisoo knew better than anyone else the pain of endurance. 

“I would die for this if I had to,” Jisoo’s voice was weak, exhausted, and perhaps he had already lost his life long before he mustered the strength for this confrontation. 

“Try living for it first.” Seungcheol brushed by him roughly, his walk betraying his inner conflicts. He didn’t look back as he spoke, “We’ll talk about this later,” 

Jisoo watched his frame disappear behind another strikingly similar corridor, watched as his shadow followed behind him like the whispers that followed his presence, his every move, with great attention. 

Choi Seungcheol was an important man. He was born into a position of unholy power, of wealth and prosperity even most well off families could never imagine-- and despite his virtues as remaining humane and level headed, it would seem that he would always be forgetful of one crucial fact. 

The pests he spoke of, those below him which he insulted with such open disgust-- was made up of nothing but Jisoo himself. Of Hansol, of Jihoon, of Mingyu and Junhui; they could never be equals. They were pawns in his hand, and even if he respected them, loved them as if they had been born under his same roof-- they hadn’t been. 

Seungcheol seems to forget that desperation is a terrifying thing. 

For a man that can shape the world at the slightest movement of his fingertips, Seungcheol truly doesn’t understand that nothing comes without suffering, not even companionship; not even the breakfast he was served every morning, not even the laces of his shoes. 

Seungcheol had never known desperation. 

Jisoo worries that perhaps he’ll know it far sooner than he could have ever hoped for. 

“There you are.” There was a flat lilt to that familiar voice, an open tone of general disapproval that forced Jisoo to refrain from wincing. 

Jeonghan gazed at him, blatantly unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding me for almost four days now,” 

Jisoo found that it was suddenly much harder to maintain his composure against Jeonghan’s fixated scrutinizing. Upon closer inspection, when he noticed the shake to his hands and the paleness of his face, Jeonghan’s annoyance flickered into irritated worry, breaking his standoffish demeanor as he quickened his stride. 

Wordlessly, he pulled Jisoo’s hands into his and clutched them tightly. Jeonghan sighed, “You can’t tell me not to worry when you leave and come back like this.” He was hurt, weariness clinging to the drawl of his words and the bloodshot exhaustion of his eyes. “You promised me,”

Jeonghan’s defensive approach had been from his own wariness, had been induced from a state of bitter confusion and anxiety. 

Jisoo wasn’t confident that he possessed it inside of him to explain to Jeonghan his deepest traumas, to explain that while they were both surely familiar with less than pleasant explorative experiences; that Jisoo underwent them by his own choice. 

Jisoo wasn’t confident that he possessed it inside of him to explain to Jeonghan that he was a fool; because surely he would think lesser of the man who chose to live his forced nightmare. 

But Jisoo motioned for Jeonghan to follow, two frames weaving in and out of identical halls and ducking past passing figures; until they finally happened upon the botanical rooftop garden of which they had found Junhui and Minghao just nights before. 

They had yet to discuss it-- why they had been in an area so secluded. Then again, perhaps some truths were better left unspoken and unacknowledged; facts left to collect dust on the shelves on one’s mind rather than to ignite flames if spoken aloud. 

Every single one of them had their secrets. 

It seems that it just might so happen that some of those hidden burdens may prove to dangerously overlap.

It was overcast; damp air clinging to the strands of Jisoo’s messed locks as clouds cast blotchy shadows, obscuring the blue sky above their heads. It was tense and uncomfortable, and Jisoo knew that perhaps he should have waited before making the decision to reveal it all-- because once he did, he would no longer be the only one with a painful choice and heavy truth to deliberate. 

When Jisoo spoke, it was soft, malleable; his vulnerability tangible in the unstable wavers of his voice and aversion of Jeonghan’s eyes searching so desperately for his. They were too keen, too understanding, and as much as Jisoo had missed them he also wished that Seungcheol’s scolding had been just a bit quieter because he was still so unprepared.

When it came to Jeonghan he could never be truly prepared. 

Jisoo informed him with hushed, shameful murmurs of after hours spent with nails digging into his skin and hurtful words clinging to the depths of his mind long after it was all over-- informed him of how it had started as something that was over his head as she clawed at his esteem and sanity with scathing manipulation, because Jisoo was nothing, and even as he realized her true intentions and his own advantages when it came to information he still continued. 

And even as he realized her true intentions Jisoo still believed her. 

Jeonghan’s grip on his arm had tightened, his breathing turning into shallow gasps of ragged air. 

“Jisoo,” Jeonghan mouthed the word against his forehead, lips soft, the warmth of his hands wiping away the wetness of his cheeks, grounding him. “It’s not your fault,”

“I knew something wasn’t right so I went back.” Jisoo threaded his fingers through Jeonghan’s silken strands, the latter’s gaze leaving Jisoo bare and vulnerable. He exhaled shakily, “It’s not good, Hannie-- you have to leave soon. I want to send Hansol with you,” 

Aside from the pain that was flitting across Jeonghan’s profile, aside from the obvious bloodlust and lividity found within the ghosts of a dead past now revived; Jeonghan still managed to listen with intent, even if he was clearly well aware of the evident topic aversion at hand. “You say that like you wouldn’t be leaving with us,” His eyes narrowed, studying Jisoo with a careful kind of skepticism, one that betrayed doubt but withheld the uneasiness of painful, unspoken questioning. 

Jisoo brushed his thumb along Jeonghan’s cheek bone, skin soft beneath his touch, earning a sigh as Jeonghan’s eyes fluttered shut. 

Jisoo nearly winced at the warmth that flooded his chest, at the nerves that flooded through his veins and filled his head with cotton. 

Jeonghan had always been so beautiful. 

“I won’t be,” 

And with those few words alone, it seemed that Jisoo managed to shatter what little composure Jeonghan had continued to manage. 

Jisoo relayed their newfound troubles, explained of plots long overdue, gave every bleak hope that may still be maintained spiralling down, until all that was left was the gentle pattering of light rain and quivering beats of unsteady silence. 

“If you stay,” Jeonghan struggled against the fluctuations of his voice, his nails digging into his palms as he swallowed harshly, “Then you’ll die,” 

He palmed at the fabric of Jisoo’s shirt, enraged, reddened eyes watering against the tremulant hoarseness of his voice. “You’re an idiot.” He stared at Jisoo with hardened eyes and trembling lips, “You’re going to die for some shitty mafia heir?” 

“Hannie,” Jisoo was crumbling beneath his light touches and heavy words. 

“He wouldn’t even want you to.” Jeonghan was near the point of choking on tearful, frustrated sobs, “It’d be for fucking nothing,”

“Hansol needs you. He won’t go unless you do,” Jeonghan spat, “You can’t just expect me to leave you here. God, you can’t just expect me to pretend like--” 

It was raining harder, now. The wind was sweeping droplets of water into Jisoo’s vision, intermingling with the wetness that clung delicately to Jeonghan’s lashes. 

It seemed that Jeonghan couldn’t find the resolve to continue.

The rain pelted relentlessly against their shaking frames, clothes clinging to their bodies uncomfortably as the silence was transformed into hurtful splashes of rain and blatant, pained staring. 

Jisoo knew what he wanted to say.

He wanted to tell Jeonghan everything, about how he was so kind, so good, always so, so beautiful. 

Jisoo wanted to tell Jeonghan that if the roles were different, that Jisoo would willingly give his life away for him too. 

Jeonghan brushed by him roughly with a face flushed with streaking tears and fingers that quivered with animosity. 

Jisoo wanted to tell Jeonghan that if the roles were different, Jisoo would adjust so easily to his lifestyle, that he would go so willingly by his side. 

But it was so much easier for Jisoo to tell a lie, just this once, and save them both the trouble of sorrows and earnest goodbyes. 

If Namjoon’s deal required blood to be spilt by his dearest friend’s hands, then whose life would be better to take than the very one he had allowed to flourish?

But Jeonghan didn’t need to know. He didn’t have to understand the intricacies, had no use for the entire truth when one underlying factor would always remain the same. 

Jisoo was going to die. 

 

Jihoon found that he was growing to despise the bleakness of the color white. 

It was everywhere, it was the fabric of his bedding, the bright stain of paint that shocked his tired eyes whenever he broke loose of his medications and found the energy to open them; only to realize that the light couldn’t be escaped as the walls kept him cornered. 

The visitations had dwindled in their frequency-- it seemed that something very well could be amiss, but between the bouts of exhaustion and the constant throbbing, Jihoon’s mind was cotton and his words nothing but the absence of thoughts altogether. 

Soonyoung was the most hushed Jihoon had ever known him to be, and despite their general acquaintance having only spanned over the course of a few months, it was off putting nonetheless-- it seemed that he didn’t fare well against copious amounts of painkillers and a constant, unmoving state. 

And in those days in the infirmary, Jihoon had come to realize that not only had Kwon Soonyoung lived to be a burden to those he resented, but perhaps it was a trait that all Spades shared, because inconsequentially enough, once Jihoon had managed to evoke a name from the silence that occupied the space to his left; Jeon Wonwoo surely refused to succumb to the quiet.

Jihoon would have never pegged him to be a man of conversation, then again, he would have never spared any thought to Wonwoo in differing circumstances to begin with-- and yet there they were, one reminiscing on his current lack of readings; and the other forced to listen with apathy that was straining thin with every complaint on detestable world building and disappointing character arcs. 

“By the way,” Wonwoo’s low murmur was husky, dry. “After you punched Soonyoung in that cafe he sulked for days. He really enjoyed working there,” 

Jihoon was highly uncomfortable with the subject change, mainly because it was strangely intimate to suddenly shift their conversation’s focal point to someone who wasn’t currently conscious enough to participate, but also because there was a small twinge of something sharp and invasive upon the very mention of his name. 

“He shouldn’t have been such a prick, then.” Jihoon’s response sounded far more defensive than he would have preferred. “It’s not like I asked him for anything difficult. The dumbass shouldn’t have been working there anyway, neutral district or not,” 

There was a snort that greeted his ears. “Soonyoung has never not been difficult,” Wonwoo grinned, humorless. “But I’m guessing that you know that by now,” 

Upon the indirect mention of their kidnapping, Jihoon offered an unimpressed scoff. He wasn’t able to understand Wonwoo’s motives, was unsure of why they were suddenly on speaking terms; and was completely and utterly confident in the fact that his cognitive functions were still not repaired enough for him to already be dancing around the tender subject. 

Soonyoung had been so adamant on not stopping his onslaught of insults, had refused to stop his fidgets and movements even after beatings that left him thrashing in his restraints. 

Kwon Soonyoung was a man who survived on will alone. What that will was, exactly, was something that Jihoon found better to remain unknown. It was problematic enough that he possessed a strange, warped kind of attachment from both of their sufferings that tethered them together-- and if there was any indicator of a vendetta it was Soonyoung’s list of offenses being recited as masked men tormented his skin with sharp blades and polished brass knuckles that gleamed under the splatters of his blood. 

Kwon Soonyoung’s will was most likely the loathing that came with being wronged; and really, truly, Jihoon detested the notion that he should want to know any more than that. 

It was a dangerous game they played, but there was nothing more dangerous than relationships of any kind that existed solely on the thin balance of secrets that tested loyalty. 

When Jihoon didn’t offer any sort of answer, Wonwoo ceased his conversings altogether, drifting back into an unsettled, restless sort of slumber, his limbs twitching as his breathing grew labored. 

Jihoon had never been fortunate enough to have dreamless nights; but never had he been so plagued as he was in that white walled, sickly smelling room with fog in his head and suspicion coiling tightly around his nerves. 

There were too many things that could be hidden in the quiet. 

Jihoon wished that they could relinquish the lighting, just this once. 

It was too bright. 

Just like the lights that had shone in his face and obscured his vision, just like the abrasive voices that had shouted their questions and taunted Jihoon with purpose and self righteous intent. 

Jihoon hated the light. 

It was a symbol of everything that he wasn’t, of what he couldn’t afford to be. He despised the depictions of good and evil, of angels and demons and the like; because nothing was ever that simple. There were dimensions, there were men even murderers loathed, there were women that could make any average evil criminal fall to their knees. 

Jihoon hated the light. 

It was so much easier to pretend to be blind when one was surrounded by the dark, but Jihoon was confronted with flashes that narrowed his eyes and stung his vision. 

Jihoon wasn’t blind; so instead he was scared. 

Because the atmosphere was shifting, the air was heavier, and he still couldn’t find the energy to move. 

Because suddenly his chest was tighter and his skin was jumpier whenever Soonyoung finally mustered the will that was rooted so deeply within him to remain awake and cognitive for more than a few hours a day. 

Jihoon wasn’t blind but sometimes he wishes he was, because not even the dark could hide the pale, trembling frame of Jisoo as he entered with a grim blankness.

Jihoon wished that the darkness of his mind could fester and simply envelop his being, because anything would be easier to comprehend and manage than news of inevitable death after just barely escaping it. 

Jihoon hated the light. 

Jisoo could see his distraught, watery eyes far more clearly because of it. 

 

It wasn’t until he could feel the stirring of sheets gliding across bare skin that Junhui could finally muster the energy to blink his eyes blearily open, small trickles of daylight seeping in through the small parting of red curtains. 

There was a shuffling to his right, the gentle scuffle of clothes and the soft pattering of feet upon carpeted floors. Junhui observed Minghao’s dazed movements with fondness, a small smile hanging loosely from his lips. The latter’s skin was tainted with bruises and love bites, small marks and indentions blooming across his neck and the tender spots of his inner thighs.

Minghao met his stare upon the mirror that rested against the wall, his hand floating through his messy strands, fixing it into something decently appeasable. “You should’ve set an alarm or something,” 

Junhui had yet to gather the resolve to force himself away from the cozy sheets, his hair sticking slightly to his forehead; still dampened from his midnight showering, still tangled from the sensation of Minghao’s fingers. “We’ve been doing nothing lately.” he sighed, flopping back upon the pillows that scattered across the expanse of the unkempt bedding. “No one will notice if you slip out now,” 

Minghao gave no response, instead offering a gaze of disapproval at Junhui’s obvious lack of drive. He moved to tear the covers away, and if not for the sudden hitch of his breath and the slight twitch of his expression, Junhui wouldn’t have been made aware of his pain. 

The sheets fell to the floor easily, and Junhui swiftly moved to place his hands along the soft, supple skin of Minghao’s cheeks. “Are you okay?” 

Minghao shrugged him off, discomfort flashing across disgruntled features. It didn’t suit him, really, and Junhui found that he had come to long for those sweet smiles and breathy giggles. 

And what a shame it was that he would most likely never hear those giggles again. 

They weren’t fools, either of them-- Junhui was well aware that there was a plot underway. He knew this, knew it to be the only truth left, and yet there they were, bathed in the after effects of bad decision making and blossoming feelings that would be left to rot. 

And what a shame it was that after all of this time, Minghao still left him as breathless as when he had left him beaten and bruised; and how sad it was that Junui would have preferred that sense of utter defeat to the loss that was hanging heavy in his chest. 

“It’s nothing. Just,” Minghao tilted his head, fiddling with the hem of his sleeves. “Just kinda sore. It’ll wear off,” 

Junhui nodded, even if he was still unconvinced. The words he yearned to speak were lodged in his throat, suffocating-- he had always been a man of want, had never heeded to any feelings of hesitation, never succumbing to simply accepting outcomes he detested. Junhui acted, and he acted well, well enough for him to still be alive today despite the bodies that lay in piles at his feet. 

Junhui couldn’t find the words to fill the silence of the room, because he knew from the hurt in Minghao’s eyes and the tightness of his shoulders that nothing would ever fill the emptiness they had carved for one another. 

And in that dreary hush that fell over them so both so harshly, Junhui’s eyes still studied the scarring along his neck, still wondered of what suffering Minghao had endured to land himself in the midst of gangs and murder and all of the terrible, unwanted parts of humanity that the fortunate tended to turn away from. 

“They abducted me from China when I was young,” Minghao’s nails dug into the skin of his arm, reddening the flesh, his stare piercing. “Burned me so they could find me if I escaped. I remember that we travelled on foot for awhile before we stayed at some human trafficking center in Busan,” 

His voice was a stable whisper, fluctuating only in small quiverances as he swallowed. “After that they took me and some other kids to Daegu to some prositution ring,” Minghao’s eyes narrowed, “And then I killed a man. I didn’t know his name or his face but when he tried to touch me I knocked over a lamp and killed him with it,”

“I was on the streets for awhile. Doing underground hitman work against those stupid rich politicians who could’ve been my clients,” Minghao spat, struggling to keep his bitterness at bay. Junhui couldn’t blame him, could never blame him, not when their methods of escape had been so similar. Not when they were both children who were taken advantage of by adults with too much to lose and too much humanity already lost. “I worked alone until Jeonghan and Soonyoung found me. Told me their plan-- how they wanted to take it all apart.” Minghao grinned, “I didn’t believe in them. I told them that they were idiots,” 

It seemed that Minghao’s open skepticism and critically doubtful nature was a trait naturally acquired, and not just reserved for Junhui’s unabashed tendencies alone. It was strange, to think that while Junhui had learned to simply be with his own feelings and desires, to simply exist with his reckless nature just for the thrill of it; that Minghao had learned to survive by limiting his feelings-- by limiting himself so as not to get hurt. 

They were different, but really just the same, and Junhui had never known an ache quite like this. 

Junhui hadn’t believed himself to be capable of it. 

“Six months. That’s how long it took them to convince me-- fuckers kept booking meetings under fake names just to see me. By that point they had found Chan, and he was just a kid who had gotten himself into too much trouble; and they grew on me. Even if I didn’t think we could do it, I thought that maybe we could at least try.” 

Minghao sighed. “I wouldn’t have thought that after how far we had gotten that I had been right the first time,” 

There were tears of frustration swimming in those dazzling, warm eyes of his, and Junhui couldn’t watch as those tears melted into watery streaks falling down a puffy face. Gently, he pulled him closer, his lips brushing atop the sensitive skin of his exposed neck, pressing a chaste kiss to the scarring he hid so easily. 

“When I was younger, there was a boy who came to a center I was staying at,” Junhui’s fingers threaded themselves in Minghao’s hair, and how terrifying it was to find comfort so strong in an action so inconsequential. “I had been there for a few days. He came in and we both spoke Chinese-- I remember being upset that he was leaving the next morning. I didn’t know that I’d be leaving in a few days, then.” The corners of Junhui’s lips turned upwards, “We climbed out onto the roof that night. I don’t remember too much besides that, but he’s the only person I can remember besides my family before I started working in some factory,” Junhui pulled back, his hands cupping Minghao’s face with ease, his fingers working to brush any lingering wetness. “You remind me of him,” 

“Me, too.” Minghao regarded Junhui with interest, “Except it was the opposite. I was only there for a night, and then I had to leave-- it was that place in Busan,” 

Junhui grinned. “Was it Busan? I didn’t care to remember,” 

And there it was, that breathless giggle that sent warmth flooding through Junhui’s veins, stronger than any drug that had surely been in his system, rendering him into something so very alive, and Junhui had never found as much sheer joy in anything before Minghao.

But Junhui had never found such a sorrow in continuing to live without someone before Minghao. 

“I liked you better then.” Minghao teased him quietly, mirth glimmering just below the surface of mocking words. “You were cuter,” 

“I’m incredibly attractive, thank you.” 

“I never said that you weren’t.” Minghao blinked at him, “I just said that I liked you better because you were cuter,” 

Junhui pulled him closer still, until all that was left was the feeling of Minghao against him, until the pain in his heart and the dread of his being could subside if only slightly, until he could become lost in the hand that curled itself into Junhui’s chest, until he could will himself to forget the very notion that the taste of Minghao’s lips couldn’t be his any longer. 

And what a shame it was that after all these years of chasing thrills under the pretense of searching to feel alive that Junhui would lose the only person who made him wonder if perhaps there was more to existence than living alone. 

Junhui refused to acknowledge the slight sting of his eyes or the sudden blurriness of the world that spun so cruelly around him. 

He hadn’t cried since the night he had blood that slicked his hands for the first time.   
And what a shame it was. 

 

Seungcheol, amidst the uncoiling, heaving chaos around him; was not naive. The signs were clear, they were presented in front of his very eyes clearly enough, and that, more so than any whispered rumor, sent chills breaking across the surface of his skin. 

If Namjoon intended to betray him, then why make it so undeniably clear? Why bother to bury the evidence when you give the shovel to someone else to reveal it yet again? It was puzzling, and Seungcheol feared that he already knew the answer, that he already placed things into a disturbing order; and God, he hoped that he was wrong. 

The cards were in order, and even if they were out of his hands, if Seungcheol could manage to play them right then perhaps all could still be well. 

Choi Seungcheol was a man of reality-- but he had never been one to surrender to defeat unless it proved to be the only option left to take. 

He sat across from his cousin, Namjoon’s men scattered about lazily, surveying the display with masked emotions and open disinterest. 

It was Seungcheol who broke the silence. “You intended for me to find out.” He leaned his face into the palm of his hand, eyes narrowed, piercing. “Why?” 

Namjoon took a careful drink from the glass that swivelled in his grip. “You don’t know everything. I made sure of that,” 

“If you were to betray me,” Seungcheol refused to avert his stare, “Then I’d be powerless against you. But you, better than anyone else, know how to cover your tracks-- so why do my men say differently, Namjoon?” 

Seungcheol couldn’t understand. If everything had truly been undone, if his father knew of his location; then why allow them the advantage of knowing? Why predict the movements of his men, allow them to know of their own demise, and simply leave them be? It was nonsense, it was nothing; but Seungcheol found the answers between the empty spaces of information and evident avoidance.

Namjoon had presented them with opportunity. The chance to realize, to reflect; to be given a choice. 

Seungcheol was unsure of what the options were, of what wager Namjoon had placed against them, but there was one thing he was certain of.   
Nothing was entirely what it seemed. Namjoon’s betrayal smelled of something bitter, something hurtful; but it had to be so much more than that. 

Namjoon sighed, tracing the rim of his glass delicately. His voice held a note of somber, the lines of his face were contorted-- his eyes fluttered closed. “You’re a smart man, Cheol. They know because I want them to. You’re suspicious because I want you to be.” There was a hint of fatigue in the distant, calculating gaze directing itself across the table. “Your father called me on the night of your arrival. And instead of lying to him, I made a deal,” 

Seungcheol’s breath hitched. “Namjoon,” 

“In exchange for your life, he could have your men. Make a spectacle out of it, an example out of you. Have you kill them, and the Spades. It was easy enough to get him to agree-- anything to shame his son, anything to punish those who went against him.” Namjoon’s words sliced through the very center of Seungcheol’s core, he was breathless. “You have to understand, Seungcheol, that revolution takes time. It takes plans and strategy,” He frowned, “And you, coming here, was neither. You would have been killed. But, to help preserve your image, your father allowed a few casualties. The public seeing his property destroyed in exchange for your defeat was nothing-- we can’t have everyone thinking that you’re completely incompetent. And, in the case of those in the infirmary, it seems that it ended up being far easier to keep everyone in the same place,” 

“Fuck you.” Seungcheol spat, knocking his chair behind him as he stood. “Namjoon, fuck. You can’t, you fucking can’t, we could have done this! We could have made this work. All we needed was time, God, you--” 

“No one has time.” Namjoon’s agitation seeped into his words, “Seungcheol. In order to win, you have to be on the inside. We will still cause reform, we can still kill your father. But you have to be alive for it, and I wasn’t going to risk everything just because of your attachments.” 

“They’re dead! They’re going to die. I’m going to have to kill them,” Seungcheol surged forward, hands clutching Namjoon by his collar. “Don’t talk to me about attachments; you goddamn hypocrite, your men have come above almost everything else, you fucking--” 

Namjoon’s hand was held up, preventing the guards that littered the room from prying away Seungcheol’s seething frame. “They haven’t jeopardized my position. If they had to be taken care of, then I’d shoot them myself. They deserve that much. I’m sure that Jisoo would prefer to die at your hands rather than your father’s,”

Hong Jisoo. 

They were just adolescents, barely teenagers upon meeting. They were children. Jisoo was selfless, he was kind, he was intelligent. Jisoo suffered because of him. Seungcheol just wanted his friend to be happy. Of course, I’ll send your cousin over, it’ll be fine, Jisoo, everything will be okay--

You’ll always be okay with me. 

“They know because some of them have a chance, Cheol. I’m not heartless,” Namjoon never pleaded, never showed weakness in the face of adversity. He prided himself on his ability to be fair against those who had wronged him, attempted to avoid disrupting the lives of those who were criminally involved due to the general fault of others and unfortunate circumstances. He continued, “Jisoo went back to Mrs. Park, I figured he would, after what you had told me. I contacted her before, paid her to tell him everything. He’ll be staying, and those in the infirmary couldn’t leave if they tried.” 

The quiet was burdening, Seungcheol decided. He had never liked it-- maybe because of the constant thrum of cars on city streets, or the screams he heard when he closed his eyes, or perhaps the looming figure of his father’s shadow that whispered to him even in his absence. 

Seungcheol had never like the hush that came with peace, because it was so unfamiliar, so difficult to become acquainted with. The silence kept him from distraction and forced Seungcheol to look within the parts of himself he couldn’t stand. 

And it was no different, even as he felt himself shattering into pieces along the damned, carpeted flooring that was still so obnoxiously pretentious. It was no different as he felt his throat dry, as his chest clenched; as his trembling fingers released their hold, dancing on the edge of Namjoon’s throat. 

“Everyone else can leave, if they’re fast enough. Your father will search for them, but they won’t be his first priority by the time you’re by his side again. But I could never tell them directly, you know, that’d be stupid. But, everyone slips up, who is he to say that I wasn’t just careless enough to let information slip; that I was sloppy, and then they escaped?” 

Seungcheol wouldn’t cry. Seungcheol couldn’t, he was frozen, limp. Seungcheol was just a puppet at the hands of older, dirtier men, and they played him, had him do their bidding. He could hear his father laughing, the sound was loud, so loud, and maybe it would have been better to just have been alone from the very beginning. 

“You’ll recover, Cheol. You’re too important to die for them. I couldn’t take the chance--I’m sorry that I couldn’t do more,” Namjoon, who somehow had the audacity to be genuinely apologetic, was enough to send Seungcheol over the edge. 

“We’re leaving.” His voice was hoarse. “We’re leaving, Namjoon, and you’re not going to stop us. Tell my father where we go, I don’t care. We’re not staying,” 

“Take a deep breath, Seungcheol,” 

“I can’t.” He was trembling. “Namjoon, I can’t. I’m-- we’re-- we’re going. We’re leaving, and it’ll be fine. Let go,” 

“You know that I can’t.” His murmur was steel, cold. “I never told you about Seokjin, did I?” His grip tightened, “He was-- he was important. More important than anything else, but Seokjin was born into a different life than me. Went behind my back to protect me, and died for it,” 

Namjoon’s face was pale, his stare absent, and maybe the room was starting to spin, and Seungcheol’s knees felt like buckling beneath his frame as he registered someone behind him, registered the bright flash of metal gleaming in his peripheral vision. 

“We can care, Cheol; but we can’t love. We keep those we care for at arm’s length, because they’re not our equals. They never could be, because if they were then they wouldn’t be innocent, and then we wouldn’t like them so much.” There was a bitter smile playing at the edges of Namjoon’s lips, the expression brimming with the very same heartbreak that had severed Seungcheol’s being. “It’s cruel, and I’ve been dreading this. So go to sleep, Cheol. Make it easy,” 

Seungcheol’s vision was spotty, the tightening of his chest combined with the sudden wetness of his face enough to send him reeling, collapsing to the floor in a mangled, dazed heap of limbs and anger. 

Namjoon crouched next to his frame, bleak. “I hope you can forgive me one day. We’ll rule together, yeah? Just do this one thing,” 

Seungcheol had never seen remorse on Namjoon’s face, had never seen him so defeated, so grieved. “Just this one thing. You’ll be okay,” 

Seungcheol won’t be okay. 

Nothing in this world will ever be okay again. 

Seungcheol hoped that they would leave; all of them. That they’d somehow get past Namjoon’s guards and help those in the infirmary, that Jisoo would forget their friendship, that Mingyu would forget his duty, keep Jihoon’s loyalty at bay; keep Hansol from trying to convince them otherwise. And maybe, for once, Junhui could just do as he was told and go along with the rest of them.

Seungcheol was many things, but he had never been fortunate enough to have been born a fool. 

If he had been, then perhaps he would have believed in those hopes, perhaps as he drifted off into drug induced slumber, he could have had a slight semblance of comfort at the notion that his friends, his family; would live to see another day without it all. Without him, without his duty to spill their blood, to leave them gutted and slaughtered like livestock. 

Seungcheol had never been fortunate enough to have been born a fool, so instead he welcomed the sleep; because he knew, deep within that awful sense of his, that once he awoke everything would go to hell. 

Or perhaps he had always been the biggest fool of them all for believing that their story could have ended any differently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Feedback is always, always welcome! I really enjoyed writing this chapter because I’ve worried that the progress of the story has felt a bit slow. Thank you for reading <3 keep me company on twitter! @sunnysideshua


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seokmin had always known. 
> 
> Wonwoo realizes that he was wrong about many things; albeit a bit late. 
> 
> Soonyoung is red.

If there had ever been a better time for abbreviated endings and paused developments then Seokmin hoped for the worst. 

At least then it wouldn’t have been so difficult. 

Seokmin had known, even from that hazy, foggy night; that Jeonghan had allowed himself to slip under for one tragedy ridden factory boy. That alone had to be expected-- he simply wasn’t invincible, and unrequited infatuation would do nothing to deter their accomplishments. 

Seokmin had known, as he had heard Minghao’s twilight stirrings and early morning returns, as he had observed a strange, foreign kind of perplexed contentedness that perhaps Jeonghan was not alone in his tragic romantic endeavors. 

Seokmin had known from the devastation written upon Seungkwan’s face at every mere glance of Hansol’s frame, was so painfully aware that some part of him had fallen out of place and never managed to sit quite right the moment they casino was levelled. 

Seokmin had known, when Wonwoo’s pointed complaints and verbal provocations began to flatten, leaving nothing but the slight hint of a frown upon his lips whenever the Blackjacks were mentioned. 

Seokmin had known, as he was reunited with his battered friend; simply by the hush of Soonyoung’s being and the state of his bleary eyed stares being directed towards a smaller frame. 

Seokmin had known. 

So then why had he still been so unprepared for the moment it all turned to ruin? They had never intended to be long time allies, they were opponents; they were against one another and the odds had aligned their motives for a temporary time, and yet--

Seokmin had known. 

But he truly hadn’t anticipated their inevitable farewells to bare so heavy on the hearts of those around him. Because these goodbyes, these small whispers of what’s to come-- they bring death, they leave Soonyoung and Wonwoo behind; and God, it was never supposed to end like this. 

Jeonghan’s eyes were red rimmed. His curt words were stained with defensive cynicism, biting and cold, leaving one gasping for air in their wake. His lips quivered, and Seokmin had never seen someone usually so composed in such a state of vulnerability as they struggled to refrain from shattering into pieces. “We’re going to come back for them. For Soonyoung and Wonwoo, we’ll come back,” 

We’ll come back. 

Seokmin swallowed back the sudden lump that had lodged itself in his throat. 

Would they even get the chance?

They were positioned in the outside of the mansion, the wind ruffling their hair and chilling their bones in the pre Autumn air. They waited, perhaps a little too patiently, for two more of their supposed companions-- and even as their lagged steps approached, it seemed that not a single breath was released. 

“Mingyu,” Hansol was still struggling against the grip of his friend, his cries strained. “Mingyu, he’s all that I have! I can’t leave. He’s the only family I have, Mingyu, please--” 

“You’re not staying.” Mingyu’s reply was breathless, blotches of red scattered about his uncharacteristically pale face. He was exhausted, bleak as he continued to tug the younger forward. 

Junhui eagerly met them both, assisting Mingyu in his efforts to keep Hansol contained. He knelt down, murmuring things that Seokmin couldn’t seem to catch, far too quiet in comparison to the choked sobs that he received. 

Seokmin risked a glance in Seungkwan’s direction, watching as Chan allowed himself to collapse into his arms, small hiccups forcing themselves from their youngest’s frame. He had just barely been a teenager when he had joined the Spades, someone so young brimming with a thirst for vengeance-- or maybe it had just been the longing to be apart of something. It had taken weeks of convincing as he followed them about, showcasing small gadgets and projects, promising that he would do his best. Evidently, it would seem that he found their small group by scavenging online forums regarding underground crime. The Blackjacks had sent his family’s business into bankruptcy, leading his single mother to suicide and Chan in and out of foster care.

The Spades had raised him from adolescence, Soonyoung always having been especially eager to spend time educating the younger on the best tricks of thievery and distraction-- which may be why, despite his resolve to continue and his vow to never abandon their ultimate goal, Chan seemed so willing to simply crumble down into the soil beneath their feet. 

Hansol was silent now, Junhui’s fingers threading through his hair, his trembling hands clenched tightly around the latter’s arm.

Seokmin caught sight of a looming presence slowly drifting away from the rest of their huddled, miserable ensemble, saddened eyes studying each and every hunched figure until he was satisfied, his movements still sluggish as he began to wander back. 

Upon the sight, Junhui slowly exchanged Hansol’s grasp; Seungkwan bringing him in to join he and Chan as they succumbed to the ground’s eager pull, drinking in the silence of numbing grief, their backs facing away from the display of abandonment. 

Seokmin could only barely hear their conversings. 

“I’m his bodyguard, Junhui. If there’s anyone who has to protect him then it’s going to be me,” 

“It was never your job to die for him. It was never any of our jobs,” There was a plea to Junhui’s solemn, wide eyed stare. “Hansol needs us right now. If you go now, it’ll kill him.” His volume dwindled, “Mingyu, don’t go. They’ll kill you as soon as they get here, and we can’t--” 

“What do you mean?” Mingyu’s sorrow was mixed with lingering confusion. 

Junhui blinked, disoriented. “Jeonghan told Minghao and I earlier what Jisoo told him. They’re sending men here to kill us, Namjoon sold us out to ensure that he would lead instead of Seungcheol. Jisoo wouldn’t leave him to die so--” 

“No,” There was a furrow to Mingyu’s brow, “That’s not it. His father wants to make an example of his son’s mistake,” he exhaled a shaky breath, “Seungcheol’s going to kill us in front of an audience. It’ll be a traitor’s death, that’s the deal Namjoon made,” 

There was a beat of unsteady, unsettling heaviness. 

There was a sudden, sharp intake of breath. 

Jeonghan, who had been utterly frozen up until that very moment, had been listening in to what was supposed to have been a fateful goodbye with the sole purpose of avoiding the harrowing sight of watching his family fall apart, if only to avoid allowing his mourning to be seen. 

“Namjoon made a deal,” His whisper was unstable, “That would allow for Seungcheol to live while the others who stayed were killed?” 

“That’s why you’re all able to go. It’s not by coincidence, he’s giving you the opportunity to leave.” Mingyu’s uneasy gaze flickered between them both, “What did Jisoo tell you? Why would he tell you differently?” 

“He didn’t want us to think we could intervene.” Jeonghan’s hands curled into fists, “He knew that you’d stay. He only told the truth to who he knew wouldn’t go, because otherwise--” 

“There’s an open window,” Junhui was fixated upon Mingyu’s frame, his tense shoulders beginning to slacken. “Between now and when Seungcheol will kill them. It gives us time,” 

“More than that,” There was a dangerous glimmer in Jeonghan’s eyes, a dangerous sense of hope dawning upon his previously contorted features. “It gives us a chance,” 

Seokmin, despite his overall messy emotional state, was able to muster a reply. “That’s risky,” He averted his eyes away from the sudden painful bout of optimism, “We have no resources. We don’t know where they’ll be or when it’s going to take place,” 

Jeonghan scoffed, disbelieving. “Then we’ll find out. Just like we have before,” 

“I know more about the inside than any of you.” There was the ghost of a smirk threatening to encase Junhui’s flat expression, “It was part of my job to know where everything was to help me know what Seungcheol’s father was up to. It saved me a lot of trips to our districts,” 

“We can just do what we did at the banquet,” Chan’s voice interrupted their small circle of pointed looks-- it would seem as though they had amassed hopes with mutters just loud enough to be overheard and the kind of optimism that was fatally contagious. “We can get in. If Mr. Choi wants to make a statement then he’ll invite a lot of people, there’s bound to be a leak somewhere,” 

“It’ll be prestigious. It won’t be as easy as the banquet to hide ourselves, it’ll most likely only be for those who are in higher classes as opposed to ordinary members,” Minghao shuffled on his feet, daring to peer at the profiles of those around him. “We need to consider everything fully before we make a decision,” 

“There isn’t even a decision to make,” 

Hansol was in disarray. His hair was messed, his face was flushed and swollen, and God, Seokmin had yet to see anyone look so positively empty in all his days of living. “We’re going to help them. It’s the only option,”

 

Seokmin knew. 

He knew from the fondness of Seungkwan’s fingers entwined within Hansol’s grasp, from the gentle way a grin spilled onto his lips upon the realization that maybe, just maybe, all wasn’t truly lost. 

He knew from the sheer determination and anger that radiated from Jeonghan’s presence, knew from the glint of bloodlust that darkened his angelic assurance.

He knew from Chan’s genuine, teary smile, that there wasn’t any choice truly left to make. 

Seokmin had always seemed to be the one to know. 

And even as Mingyu did as he promised and made haste to return by Seungcheol and Jisoo’s side, if only to offer a greater number of kills upon first glance; it seemed that there was no longer the threat of suffocation hanging in the air. 

Even so, Seokmin knew better than to believe the sudden beating of his heart and the flashes of faint resolve. 

Seokmin had always wondered if Jeonghan’s improvisations and abrupt plan changes would result in their demise. 

So then why was he still so surprised at his own willingness to die? It should have been his goal to survive, to abandon those who hindered his mission and his will, to leave the compromised to rot. 

But even as he had promised himself these very things upon his recruitment, Seokmin had known. 

There truly hadn’t ever been a choice to make. 

 

It was the bleak spinning of tires on asphalt, the small dents and bumps that jostled his frame that kept Wonwoo present, that deterred his attempts at dissociation. The bandages on his legs could only do so much to relieve the burn; because the fire that ate at his core and scorched his insides had never truly ceased. And perhaps it wasn’t the sparks of a match that had ignited the flames, but Wonwoo’s own futile anger, the storm inside him having drowned him so long ago that he foolishly believed himself fireproof against the heat. 

Wonwoo had been wrong about many things. 

He had prided himself on his effective boundaries, on living a life not abstracted with distractions or fleeting relationships. It was his upbringing, his adolescent memories of absent parents and avoidance, of a child who felt everything and nothing and succumbed to the chill, the pull of pure isolationism. 

But Wonwoo was weak, and the biting Winter that coated his being had thawed under the growing, delicate flowers of friendship and trust. 

Wonwoo had been arrogant to believe that sheer will alone could have saved him from such frustratingly selfless people, who had ended up in the most frustratingly unfair circumstances. 

In the corner of the world where lost ones have nowhere else to turn, they found a home in one another’s hopes and fears, until maybe there was a chance for peace if they worked hard enough for it. 

The Spades had been born under resentment and chipped shoulders, of scathing hatred and bitter sorrows-- and how fitting it was for Wonwoo to be at their mercy, tied and bound, just as the Blackjacks themselves had started. 

Choi Seungcheol’s location was still unknown. Jisoo had explained their dilemma with the best of his ability, promising them that the others wouldn’t know to come to their rescue, that their end was near, that their deaths would be swift; and perhaps in another lifetime they could finally be free. 

And when the time had come for those who were able to flee and those who remained to be shackled by the burdens they fought so valiantly to free themselves of, it was rumored that not a single soul had proved to withstand against them, because there was simply no fight left to be pursued. 

As a final act demonstrating some sort of semblance of mercy, Namjoon’s men had been instructed to relieve them the effort of having their mouths stuffed with drugged, suffocating cotton. Wonwoo wishes that he would have allowed them the comfort of disorientated escapism, because the silence that had settled over their resigned, deathly frames was enough to make him feel as though a bullet had already severed whatever cord kept him tied to reality. 

“Well,” Soonyoung sniffed. “This fucking blows,” 

“You could say that again.” Mingyu was positioned to Wonwoo’s left, situated at an unnatural angle, his gangly limbs restrained tightly at his back. He had been eerily still throughout their ride, eyes wide and unblinking. 

“Well, this fucking--” 

“For God’s sake, Soonyoung, fuck off.” Jihoon’s head hung low, his groan most likely not as hostile as originally intended. “You and Wonwoo both deserve this after you humiliated us and drew on my face,” 

“Are we still holding grudges? That was ages ago,” Soonyoung had the audacity to seem offended. 

“You drew dicks on my face,” 

“It was artistic liberty,”

In the commotion of disputes among those who were still in utter denial about their respective feelings, there was a sharp jab to Wonwoo’s side, one that elicited a hiss and reproachful glare. 

It was unfair, really, how Mingyu could still stare upon him with those same captivating eyes, warm and open, how even as his identity was revealed his expression towards Wonwoo never changed. Even during their moments of steely insults and pointed sabotage, it would seem that Wonwoo should have known better than to believe himself to be immune to the warmth of his veins and the gentle lull that threatened to pull him under. 

It would all be coming to an end soon. 

Death had never bothered Wonwoo until he had found himself with people to lose. 

Mingyu was mouthing something, clumsy, jumbled, and Wonwoo really couldn’t understand. 

Wonwoo was wrong about many things. 

First, he believed the murky waters of his emotional wounds to be enough to prevent the world’s heat from burning him. 

And then, foolishly, he believed that perhaps attempting to scoot closer would result in anything other than their vehicle taking on a sudden turn and sending him reeling directly into Mingyu’s side, knocking them both off kilter, and leaving them both in uncomfortable seating arrangements. 

Mingyu wheezed, his sudden move backward having resulted in Jisoo being shoved roughly to the floor, the latter rolling inelegantly until he was able to push himself upwards with his elbows.   
It would have amassed more than just a few exhales of half hearted laughter had they not been spending their last moments in such a fashion. 

After offering more than one apology, Mingyu resumed his painfully open gazing, and Wonwoo’s throat was so, so dry. 

It would seem that there was something else for Wonwoo to be wrong about. 

He realized it, as he stared unabashedly back, as their quiet intermingled and intertwined, leaving their beating hearts to mix together as a single, sad entity. 

Wonwoo had never been drowned--no, he had always been alight, fire and anger and hate always simmering within him, always on the verge of release. 

But Mingyu-- Mingyu was the water that cooled him. He dragged Wonwoo up from the flames of his own creation, gave him life, presented himself as the calm Wonwoo never knew he needed. 

Wonwoo had never drowned within himself but he would drown within Mingyu so willingly, had they ever been given the chance. 

“Mingyu.” His voice was hoarse, lowered, “I--”

“Don’t.” Mingyu buried his face within the crook of Wonwoo’s neck, “Not now. You can’t,” 

Wonwoo couldn’t prevent the wry grin that threatened to tug his lips upwards. “Then when can I?” 

Mingyu’s reply was muffled. “You’ll know,” 

Wonwoo would know. 

Hope was a lethal, ugly thing. 

Wonwoo longed for it anyway. The hope that they would have a chance, at least, for him to say those words. 

If Wonwoo’s flames were to be extinguished then he wanted the ocean to leave him dripping and breathless, he yearned for the tide to carry him outwards, to swirl his ash among the gentle lapping of waves among shores; for the rain to beat down mercilessly upon him-- Wonwoo wanted to drown within Mingyu. 

But instead he nestled ever so slightly closer, and allowed for the hush to fall over them both once again. 

Jihoon and Soonyoung had ceased their bickering, making it far easier to Wonwoo’s eyes to flutter gently shut. 

He would need to succumb to the idea of sleep, because Death was eternal slumber, and Wonwoo was so, so tired. 

His eyes stayed open anyway. 

 

His wounds had reopened, and every futile attempt at readjusting was met with stabbing pain and flaring agony. 

Soonyoung was bound again, situated against the rotting pillar of a cold, steely cellar with a cloth stuffed within his mouth roughly, bordering on suffocation, just on the edge of forcing him to retch. 

How strange it was that he would end just as his enemy had started-- alone, quiet; and humiliated. 

Soonyoung had never believed in fate. Not even after Jeonghan had come to his rescue upon their first meeting, not when they had met the following members thereafter, and certainly not even when the consequences of his profession had caught him at long last, the effects of his torments and beatings still visible as the bruises and open cuts along his tender skin. 

Soonyoung had always prided himself on his inability to succumb to unfortunate circumstance. He had escaped death before and would always continue to do so-- otherwise he would die trying. It had been his only rule since before he had even become entirely immersed within the true face of humanity’s ugliness, since before he had ever dreamt of mafia failings and empirical downfalls. 

He fought against the urge to fall into eternal slumber when left bloodied in that dirty, red light district alleyway, had screamed against his pain even as his will began to crumble within the tearing of his throat against the sensation of Blackjack blades leaving blooming, bloody flowers at his skin. 

But now Soonyoung was still. 

It could have been for the realization that his efforts had failed him, left him nothing but abandoned-- Soonyoung had known the bitter reality far too soon, had acquainted himself with sorrowful adversities and the understanding that there was always a chance for everything to go completely awry. He had lived it, witnessed it, watched under broken city street lights as women were forced to their knees and stripped of life itself, watched from behind drug ridden dumpsters as children suffered at their parents knowledge for spare change. 

Soonyoung had considered reality to be a friend. And perhaps it was naive of him to assume that this comprehension, that this notion of simply knowing would have led to any fate better than those who had long died at the expense of the rich and prosperous. Because it was with this knowledge that Soonyoung had built himself to be self destructible, able to tear himself apart with his own hands if it meant he could escape the clutches of those who would find satisfaction in his demise. 

Soonyoung had built himself to be indestructible, and yet, much like the human that still resided deep within him, he couldn’t find the resolve to hope that his finale would be executed by nothing other than the slight shake of his finger and a trembling breath. 

He wore the flaws of the world as the scars that painted his flesh and the nightmares that plagued his conscience, wore his hypocrisy as the smirk along his face as he inflicted the very same terror he despised to those who he deemed worthy, too aware of their own feelings regarding worth and blame. 

The world would continue to spin regardless of his actions, regardless of how his life was lived and how he took the life of others, regardless of human atrocity and aside from the sufferings of mankind. 

Soonyoung’s actions would never change; and perhaps that was why he felt so desperately sick, so utterly ill as his own ideology proved that it wasn’t the end result that kept the world stagnant, but the feelings of defeat that came with human error. 

Because even if nothing would have truly changed regardless of outcome, Soonyoung still wished that his despair could be justified by anything other than his own shortcomings and ill placed efforts. 

It was in that musty, cramped cellar that Soonyoung began to feel at ease-- not with his death, not with his loss, certainly not with his accomplishments; but rather, something weaker, something far more vulnerable. 

It had been for nothing. 

It had been for nothing but Jihoon was propped next to him, his head a heavy weight atop Soonyoung’s shoulders, his sighs soft and forlorn, his eyes closed and brimming with anger. 

A few months prior Soonyoung would have grown angry at the sentiment. After all of their time wasted and blood needlessly spilled, how could he have the audacity to find comfort, to find satisfaction, to turn so effortlessly to what was easy instead of what was real if only to preserve his own soon to be dead sense of self?

But Soonyoung couldn’t find an answer to the frustration that burned hot within his veins, couldn’t contemplate those rhetoricals because he was growing fidgety and his restlessness would only serve to worsen Jihoon’s nerves. 

It was quiet. 

It had been quiet when Soonyoung had been lifted and dragged into a brothel that would soon prove to be a sanctuary. It had been quiet when he had driven all of those hostages and delivered them on the golden heir’s doorstep. 

It had been quiet when he had spent hours speaking with hushed whispers to his partners in recovery within Namjoon’s estate. 

Soonyoung imagined that despite immediate assumption, his death would be quiet. Perhaps a presence so loud was deserving of something softer, for the ringing of a silver bullet to carve a hole in chest as his blood caked the pristine floors of whatever grand stage he kneeled upon, leaving a mute audience to resume their small minded chatter. 

However, a man can only change so much within such a short span of time-- and so Soonyoung humored himself, imagining instead a great escape, the expression of fear that would flit upon Mr. Choi’s face as he was shot first in his legs, his arms, and then however many shots in the stomach it would take for his breath to hitch and never return. 

Soonyoung figured that it was entirely plausible to paint an entire city in the blood that coated that man’s hands. That, coupled with Soonyoung’s own red rimmed guilt, could coat the entire world. 

Except that world already existed, and it was covered in more blood than anyone could ever imagine. 

If you squinted long enough, you might be able to glimpse the vermillion that lives under every hand and within every heart. 

If Soonyoung had to liken himself to a color it would be red, not because of his anger and bloodlust, but simply because the world had chosen to paint him red from the moment he had been forced into existence. 

Soonyoung found himself wishing that the world was a black nothing instead.

Next to him, Jihoon stirred.

There were no feelings in nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very delayed, and also shorter than the others, so I’d like to apologize for that. Ive been super busy, but I’ve been trying to put things together when I can. Thank you all so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Criticism is always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts :) I'll be posting the chapters I've already written and then update as regularly as I can ^^ Thank you for reading❤


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